CHAPTER IX.
And the pity of it! The poor white thing lying like a shot dove, bleeding, and the dreadful blood flowing over the red tiles....
Mr Hare was kneeling by his daughter when John, rushing forth, stopped and stood aghast.
“What is this? Say—speak, speak man, speak; how did this happen?”
“I cannot say, I do not know; she did not seem to know me; she ran away. Oh my God, I do not understand; she seemed as if afraid of me, and she threw herself out of the window. But she is not dead...”
The word rang out in the silence, ruthlessly brutal in its significance. Mr Hare looked up, his face a symbol of agony. “Oh, dead, how can you speak so...”
John felt his being sink and fade like a breath, and then, conscious of nothing, he helped to lift Kitty from the tiles. But it was her fathe
