97 “For what, kiddo?” Larry turned his head slightly to one side. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. gutenberg.
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