’ ‘Well, don’t bite my head off,’ protested Mrs Sindlesham, clearly amused. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. ” “Possibly—bit by bit. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
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