Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. “Why?” he asked, suavely. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. ‘I think it is better if I hold the pistol. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict.
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