As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. I know he is dead. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. It was the grand nursery of vice.
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