John Egerton looked shrinkingly at the torn and ineffective nightdress, at the wide spaces of pink flesh showing through the rents. He could not imagine himself picking up that body. He said, “What?⁠—like⁠—like that ?”

Stephen looked up. “Yes,” he said; “why not?” But he knew very well why not. Because of a certain insane sense of decency which governs even a murderer in the presence of death. Emily Gaunt must not be “got away” like that! Besides, it would be dangerous. He thought for a moment. Then, “No,” he said. “Wait a minute,” and clattered down the basement stairs.