"What was her name?"
"Lily. She had seats in the first balcony with some girl friends. You would know her by her brown hair. She wore a white silk shirt waist and a diamond ring I gave her for Christmas. I went to the theater, but I couldn't get near it, and they said they were still carrying out bodies."
"And her name? Who was she?"
"She was my daughter—my only one!"
The woman walked away, weeping, without giving the name, and the only response she would make to questions from those who followed her was:
"My daughter!"
Two men, with two little boys, came in. "Our wives," they said, "came to the matinee with some neighbors. They have not yet come home."
Before they could give their names a third man ran up and cried:
"I just got word the folks have been taken home in ambulances. They are alive."
The men gave a shout and were gone in an instant.