"This is the explanation of the bloody deed. I’d rather not go,” she added. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left, the island would become intolerable. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. They almost made me feel like they were mine. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl.
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