One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket. An uncomfortable silence followed. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. “Why should one pretend? “Think of all the beauty in the world that is covered up and overlaid. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth.
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