In vain do you try to obtain for me a medical certificate of temporary aberration. I shall not take advantage of it.
I killed him soberly, conscientiously, coldly, without the least regret, fear or hesitation. Were it in your power to resurrect him, I would repeat my crime.
He followed me always and everywhere. He took a thousand human shapes, and did not shrink—shameless creature—to dress in women’s clothes upon occasion. He took the guise of my relative, my dear friend, colleague, good acquaintance. He could dress to look any age except that of a child (as a child he only failed and looked ridiculous). He has filled up my life with himself, and poisoned it.
What has been most dreadful was that I have always foreseen in advance all his words, gestures and actions.
When I met him he would drawl, crushing my hand in his:
“Aha! Whom—do—I—see? Dear me! You must be getting on in years now. How’s your health?”
Then he would answer as for himself, though I had not asked him anything:
“Thank you. So so. Nothing to boast of. Have you read in to-day’s paper...?”
If he by any chance noticed that I had a flushed cheek, flushed by the vexation of having met him, he would be sure to croak:
“Eh, neighbour, how red you’re getting.”