Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church. I MUST.
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