He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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