“After all,” I cried, “there may still be such a thing as an immortal soul. Though every physical expression is smashed at one blow, that does not prove....”
“There is no such thing as proof possible,” my companion interrupted. “But don’t you know in your heart that it’s no good?”
“No good. It’s no good.” I woke with a start at the repetition of that statement.
My young modeller was rolling a great ball of plasticine, and before I could stop him he had thrown it with deadly accuracy at his effigy of man.
“He wouldn’t come right,” he explained, picked up the shapeless mass of clay, and tossed it carelessly into a corner of the workshop.
“Oh, but you shouldn’t have done that,” I said, with the incurable didacticism of the pedagogue.