“I felt I must come home and tell you before the rumour reached you. He was found on the Tillingham marshes, with his gun....”
“How?—an accident?” she mumbled vaguely.
“I don’t know, my dear—I’m afraid not.”
“You mean....”
“I mean that from the way they tell me he was lying and from the nature of the wounds, I feel nearly sure that it was his own act. I am telling you this, poor darling, because you would be sure to hear it some time, and I would rather you heard it from me.”...
“Will there be an inquest?” she heard herself asking calmly.
“Yes, there’s sure to be an inquest. But of course I don’t know what the findings will be, or if the Coroner will want to question you.”
“I don’t mind if he does—I can answer.”
She did not quite know what she was saying. She went over and stood by the window, looking out. A mist was rising from the garden, giving her an eastward vista of fields in a far-off sunshine. The air was full of an austere sense of spring, ice-cold, and pierced with the rods of the blossomed fruit-trees, standing erect against the frigid sky.
Her father came and put his arm around her.