A few days afterwards, one of my work-mates asked me how I liked my
house, which I told him was all right and very handy for my work. But
my liking was turned to antipathy when he related how the place had
once been occupied by an old chemist who committed suicide by cutting
his throat. He was found in the very room in which my little daughter
slept.
I can assure you that not one of my family knew of the tragedy which
once occurred in that little house, but I soon found a reasonable
excuse to leave it.