At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. “Why should it matter?” he said. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. I have given up painting. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through.
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