“Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. This key," he added, taking it from the boy, "was purloined from me by your father, Jack. Do you have family that I should ask?” “Oh, Julian! No, my family is dead, lost. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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