He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. It was decrepit and too large. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. I’ve muddled all this business. And this shall be your diet till you die. She had maintained a B in each subject except History, which she occasionally felt compelled to strive for A’s in, considering she had lived through most of it. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. It was now evident that he had not been normal that first day. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. John, I shall eat that whole tin of sardines.
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