Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. When she was done she checked the patio door and carried his body into the garage, burying his remains next to the ten year old girl he had raped and killed last autumn, whose bones were starting to show in small areas where the maggots had feasted. ’ His colour deepened. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination.
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