Then John's form began to fade, and as its shadowy essence grew dim, despair slowly stole like a mask of death over Dorothy's face.
She stood for a moment gazing vacantly into space.

Then she fell to the ground, the shadow of her father hovering over her prostrate form, and the words, "Dead, dead, dead," came to me in horrifying whispers from every dancing shadow-demon in the room.
In trying to locate the whispers as they reverberated from floor to oaken rafters, I turned and saw Sir George.

He looked as if he were dead.
"Why should you not be dead in fact ?" I cried.

"You would kill your daughter.

Why should I not kill you?
That will solve the whole question." I revelled in the thought; I drank it in; I nursed it; I cuddled it; I kissed it.