"Dead?"
"Yes, she is dead." The young man, who looked a mere boy in spite of his
unshaven chin and haggard eyes, threw himself into a chair and dropping his
face on his arms burst into heavy sobs.
Gora stared, fascinated, at the sharp white face of the girl, the rope of
fair hair wound round her neck like something malign and muscular that had
strangled her, the half-open eyes, whose white maleficent gleam deprived
the poor corpse of its last right, the aloofness and the majesty of death.
She may have been an innocent and lovely young creature when alive, but
dead, and lacking the usual amiable beneficencies of the undertaker, she
looked like a macabre wax work of corrupt and evil youth.
And she was horribly stiff.
III
Gora went into the kitchen and made him a cup of coffee over a spirit lamp.
He drank it gratefully, then followed her up to the attic as she feared
their voices might be overheard from the lower room. There he took the easy
chair and the cigarette she offered him and told his story.
The young girl was his sister and they were English. She had been visiting
a relative in Santa Barbara when a sudden illness revealed the fact that
she had a serious heart affection. He had come out to take her home
and they had been staying at the Palace Hotel waiting for suitable
accommodations before crossing the continent.
His sister--Marian--had been terrified into unconsciousness by the
earthquake and he had carried her down the stairs and out into Market
Street, where she had revived.
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