All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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