A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Brewis had told him the Valade family had been victim to wholesale murder, and a twinge of compassion had wrung even his deliberately hardened heart.
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