They held the funeral on the second day$$$ with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men - some in their brushed Confederate uniforms - on the porch and the lawn$$$ talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs$$$ believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps$$$ confusing time with its mathematical progression$$$ as the old do$$$ to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but$$$ instead$$$ a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches$$$ divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.
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