CHAPTER II
The windows of that room gave out on the street of the Consuls
which as usual was silent. And the house itself below me and above
me was soundless, perfectly still. In general the house was quiet,
dumbly quiet, without resonances of any sort, something like what
one would imagine the interior of a convent would be. I suppose it
was very solidly built. Yet that morning I missed in the stillness
that feeling of security and peace which ought to have been
associated with it. It is, I believe, generally admitted that the
dead are glad to be at rest. But I wasn't at rest. What was wrong
with that silence? There was something incongruous in that peace.
What was it that had got into that stillness? Suddenly I
remembered: the mother of Captain Blunt.
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