She bent down to collect up the fragments of a broken fruit-dish, but as she did so, I heard the soft moaning of a draught under the door that led to the garden. A sad, persistent moan that seemed to speak of sorrow and loneliness, of lives lost and agonies endured. Mrs Thompson raised her eyes and listened for a while. Then she gently put down the pieces of china that she had been collecting up, and got to her feet.
