So I kept hearing about this family a long time back and they were kind of semi-mythical figures themselves but I still don't know the true story of what happened to them.

There was lovely quotes I read somewhere by the American Sanskrit scholar Wendy Doniger

missed pick up the pieces where philosophy throws up its hands.

The great myths may help survivors to think through this unthinkable catastrophe to make sense by analogy,

drawing some sort of truth out of the chaos of life. Chapter 3 A a House in Yorkshire. A few days after I got back to London, I hopped on a train for Bradford in Yorkshire.

It was farther north than I had ever been in England.

When I got off the train, it was a blustery rainy day.

I walked from the bus stop past take out Chinese bedding parlors, vape shops,

rows and rows of nearly identical brick houses.

Their house is right next to a business.

Until I finally reached the address on the Western Union Slo business. as Cyrus's brother.

In front of me stood a neat small house with a trim patch of lawn. The yard was full of garden statues.

There must have been at least 40 of them. There were gnomes, fairies,

Buddhas, leprecons. As I stood there I realized how nervous I was. I paced in front of the house a little bit. It was just me and the gnomes.

Hey look at Ellen Berry from the New York Times.

Hi Ellen.

Good luck in there, Ellen.

And then I finally... Good luck in there, Ellen.

And then I finally worked up the courage to ring the bell, and waited. Hello. The door was opened by a big man in one-piece tiger print pajamas. He looked to be in his mid 80s. His eyes were cloudy with age, but he was still imposing barrel

chested with hands that seemed twice the size of normal hands.

I could see that as a young man he had been a giant.

But the thing that struck me most of all is that he had Cyrus's face, the same jutting cheekbones, the same pale skin.

...