In spite of his almost superhuman effort to keep the picture away from him, Kent saw it vividly--the swift turning to the table, the inspiration of the scissors, the clipping of the long tress of hair, the choking to death of Kedsty as he regained consciousness.

Over and over again he whispered to himself the impossibility of it, the absurdity of it, the utter incongruity of it.
Only a brain gone mad would have conceived that monstrous way of killing Kedsty.

And Marette was not mad.

She was sane.
Like the eyes of a hunting ferret his own eyes swept quickly about the room.

At the four windows there were long curtain cords.