Susan rarely spoke of her grandfather at all, let alone as much as she was to this stranger. But she had such a strong suspicion that if there was something unnatural going on (and waking up in a strange place with no memory of arriving and no idea of how one got there definitely qualified as odd at the very least which of course bordered on unnatural and was close enough to make no nevermind to Miss Susan) then there was a strong chance that Death was involved somehow. That sort of thing had repercussions.
So when the woman asked what it was that her grandfather did, Susan didn't rally hesitate in replying. Nor did she think of prevaricating with a lie, or even a euphemism. She simply said, “He reaps the souls of the departed.”
It was, perhaps, somewhat more poetic than she intended. Susan had little time for such things as poetry. It always seemed a waste of words. Why could one not simply say that a daisy was a daisy? Why did it have to be dew covered blossoms of pristine and snowy hues kissed by sunlight? Wast of time, waste of words. But Mrs. Emerson had not asked who her grandfather was, she asked what it was that he did, and that was the answer Susan had given her.
In retrospect, however, regretting the rather lilting nature of the answer, Susan decided to clarify. “He's Death.”