The room is resounded with a little wearied voice chanting plaintively of flowers. Flowers, as the chant goes, are like fugitive happiness, utterly ravaged the point when you too dearly fondle them. Flowers, however, are what this room is deprived of. The room is dismally poky and contains only some cumbersome cupboards, which are glass-fronted, and show the reflection of a young lady who professes a penchant of having her life staring back at her. But the presence of the young lady remains invisible to whoever witnessing the depicted scene, saves the white lace dress, which whiteness is now somewhat compromised by a few stains of dirt, she was wearing on the day of her unaccountable disappearance. Away the white dress sashays and dances, controlled by a pair of hands that are also nowhere to be seen. No sentiments or emotions reign supreme in this derelict house. Nor are evil spirits that are provoked to their vicious extremes. Rancours of long ago, of yesterday, are pardoned