Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver.
This helped to take a portion of its weight off the foot he had hurt. Then he proceeded, slowly and carefully, in great pain, to the bank of the stream.
Opening the window very slowly and carefully, they waited until a dark cloud had somewhat obscured the night, and then one by one passed through into the little garden.
Because we know how painful feelings are, I think we are just so careful about validating other people's experiences, being very careful not to do or say anything that would be harmful.
There are over two million letters, diaries and artefacts up in our archive, meticulously filed, and they don't stay that way by letting strange men and their bears rummage around.