The two mice, careering wildly, scampered cheekily over
his slippers. He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. He
was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench of
knowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness,
working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.
"What am I doing?"
And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer:
"Destroying myself."
Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was
wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:
"Why wrong?"
Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his
chest resisted his own annihilation.
There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly
the electric light went out; there was a bruising thud in the
penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in front of
him. Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the dark
room.
Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation began
again inside him.
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