I didn’t go out of my way or anything. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. It reverberated in the silence. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall. The Dawn Pearl. They tried to read illustrated papers in an unconcerned manner and with forced attention, lest they should catch the leaping exultation in each other’s eyes. He hated horizons.
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