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Updated: June 11, 2025
He unfolded the paper, expecting to see a prescription, but read instead these words: "To MORO SCINDIA; "My Dear Cousin: Death has relieved you of the task I imposed upon you. John Darrow's body is in the well in the cave on Malabar Hill, where, before this reaches you, my body will have also gone to meet it.
The funeral took place the next morning, and on the return from the cemetery Dick told his mother that he must go and look over things at Darrow's office.
And I'm afraid she's created the same kind of confusion in Owen's mind led him to mix up things you read about with things you do...You know, of course, that she sides with him in this wretched business?" Developing at length upon this theme, she finally narrowed down to the point of Darrow's intervention. "My grandson, Mr.
And had he lived he would have argued with me on the subject. But he is dead and he knows now, in the negation and darkness of death, that he was wrong that there is no immortality " Mr. Darrow paused. He had after many years won his argument with Prof. Foster. But the victory brought no elation. Mr. Darrow's eyes filled again and he turned to walk from the stage.
Nothing worthy of record occurred until evening; at least nothing which at the time impressed me as of import, though I afterward remembered that Darrow's behaviour was somewhat strange. He appeared singularly preoccupied, and on one occasion started nervously when I coughed behind him.
This obscured, if it narrowed, the field of conjecture; and Darrow's gropings threw him back on the conclusion that he was probably reading too much significance into the moods of a lad he hardly knew, and who had been described to him as subject to sudden changes of humour.
I had thought Darrow's attack the result of an overwrought mental condition which would speedily readjust itself, and had so counted upon his daughter's influence as all but certain to immediately result in a temporary cure.
When the nurse appeared to summon Effie, the little girl, after kissing her grandmother, entrenched herself on Darrow's knee with the imperious demand to be carried up to bed; and Anna, while she laughingly protested, said to herself with a pang: "Can I give her a father about whom I think such things?"
While I leaned over the rail engrossed in these thoughts, one of the black thunder clouds that had been gathering and dissipating over the island during the entire afternoon suddenly glowed overhead with a strange white incandescence startlingly akin to Darrow's so-called "devil fires."
Darrow's good-bye to his dear friend. He stood up and his loose figure and slyly malicious face wore an unaccustomed seriousness. The audience waited, but the facile Mr. Darrow was having difficulty locating his voice, his words. His eyes, blurred with tears, were still staring at the coffin. Finally Mr. Darrow began. His dear friend. Dead. So charming a man. So brilliant a mind. Dead now.
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