Thus The Roundabout, dark, utterly without sound, stayed through the night.
Once, from the chair by the window in the little drawing-room a voice said,
"I'm going back to Scaw House--to my father. I'm going back--to all of
them."
During many hours the little silver clock ticked cheerfully, seeing perhaps
with its little bright eyes, the two dark figures and wondering what they
did there.
BOOK IV
SCAW HOUSE
CHAPTER I
THE SEA
I
Peter Westcott was dead.
They put his body into the 11.50 from Paddington.
II
It was a day of high, swinging winds, of dappled skies, of shining gleaming
water. Bunches now and again of heavy black clouds clustered on the
horizon, the cows and horses in the fields were sharply defined, standing
out rigidly against a distant background. The sun came and was gone,
laughed and was instantly hidden, turned the world from light to shadow and
from shadow back to light again.
Peter's body was alone in the compartment. It was propped up against red
velvet that yielded with a hard, clenched resistance, something
uncomfortable, had the body minded. The eyes of the body were the high
blank windows of a deserted house. Behind them were rooms and passages, but
lately so gaily crowded, so eager, with their lights and fires, for
hustling life--now suddenly empty--swept of all its recent company, waiting
for new, for very different inhabitants.
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