The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. ’ ‘It’s immaterial, in any event,’ Roding put in. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. Through that she had to go.
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