She is sitting by the table and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes.

She shudders slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the noise of distant footsteps.
At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth.

And such perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.

Warning is thus given to the ships that have lost their way in the fog.
Some one in the corner says: "Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him.
Our people can't strike like that.

He stuck the knife here, then slashed over there, and almost cut his head off." "You can't do that with a dull knife!" "No.