There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. "To him I owe everything," continued the widow, "life itself—nay, more than life,—for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. Loving was better than that. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor.
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