Sylvia Whitman, walking home along the familiar village street, felt like a stranger exploring it for the first time.

She had never before seen it under the glare of tragedy which her own consciousness threw before her eyes.

No tragedy had ever been known in East Westland since she could remember.

It had been a peaceful little community, with every day much like the one before and after, except for the happenings of birth and death, which are the most common happenings of nature.
But now came death by violence, and even the wayside weeds seemed to wave in a lurid light.

Now and then Sylvia unconsciously brushed her eyes, as if to sweep away a cobweb which obstructed her vision.