And now, with what would seem to an outside the acme of gruesome unconscious comedy, the whole funeral mummery of the afternoon was listlessly repeated. Again the organ wheezed, again the choir screeched and scraped, again a droning incantation arose, and again the morbidly curious spectators filed past a macabre object—this time a dual array of mortuary repose. Some of the more sensitive people shivered at the whole proceeding, and again Stephen Barbour felt an underlying note of eldritch horror and daemoniac abnormality. God, how life-like both of those corpses were...and how in earnest poor Thorndike had been about not wanting to be judged dead...and how he hated Tom Sprague...but what could one do in the face of common sense—a dead man was a dead man, and there was old Doc Pratt with his years of experience...if nobody else bothered, why should one bother oneself?...Whatever Tom had got he had probably deserved...and if Henry had done anything to him, the score was even now...well, Sophie was free at last...