“You stupid bitch. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. It seemed that within an instant the Pestilence struck, and she begged me on her deathbed to shelter you and her grandson for the rest of your lives, as she could see that even though I was a ‘demon fiend’ and ‘minor devil’ that I loved you. There is a place—This isn’t the place. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. “He has said something of the sort. I loved her so much. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. 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. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
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