This is retribution. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. No, don’t interrupt me. "How is the patient?" he asked. It had certainly caused some havoc in the uninhabited mansion, chewing through Holland covers to get at the furniture beneath, and knocking down a fire guard and a couple of wooden stands.
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