The dog wagged its tail once more, raised its head, and blinked. Then the head fell, and she was dead.
The glance of the beast was piteous. Sonnenkamp seemed to wish to torture himself with gazing at her.
"Bury the dog before Roland sees her, he said at last.
"Where shall we bury her?"
Yonder, by the ash. But first skin her: the hide is worth something.
"No, sir, I cannot: I loved the dog too well to skin it."
"Very well. Then bury it skin and all."
He turned away and wandered about the garden; yet he could not refrain from returning to the spot where the dog was being buried.
"Yes," he said aloud to himself: "that's the way. The world gives us a toadstool roasted in fat. The world is a toadstool roasted in fat—palatable, but poisonous!"
He returned to the house.