‘Your mystery lady, I mean. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. I just never had anything else fun to do. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Just as the attendants were preparing to lower the corpse into the earth, Jack fell on his knees beside the coffin, uttering the wildest exclamations of grief, reproaching himself with the murder of his mother, and invoking the vengeance of Heaven on his own head. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene.
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