On a chair near the cold hearth, where no fire had been kindled since he last saw it, sat Sim with glassy eyes.

His neck was bare and his clothes disordered.

At his back stood Rotha, with her arms thrown round her father's neck.

His long, thin fingers were clutching her clasped hands as with a vise.
"You must come with us," said one of the strangers, addressing the tailor.

He was justice and coroner of the district.
Sim said nothing and did not stir.