I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself. A mask of dirty old hairy leather, with two holes and a slit, it was too far gone for the old trick of please your honour and God reward you and pity upon me. It was disastrous. All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing. I don’t know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I’ll be able to tell another.

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