“I have not left this apartment myself. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ‘You’re as mad as she is, Gerald.
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