“My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. Earles declared. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. She was shaking violently when she entered the side door of the house. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh.
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