Then he saw the water he had poured out.
“Oh, well,” he thought, “perhaps I will, after all....”
He took out his razor, one of the old-fashioned kind, stropped it carefully and lathered himself.
While he was shaving he thought: “I wish I hadn’t told that boy Jones I’d send him to Clotters on Monday morning. Clotters won’t like it much....”
Suddenly, and seemingly without any premeditation, he thrust the soapy razor into his throat, just above the windpipe....
§ 7
At the Duke Street Methodist Schoolroom a select audience of eleven waited until half-past eight for Mr. Weston to deliver his paper on “Shakespeare.”
“Perhaps he’s ill,” suggested Miss Picksley.
“No, he’s not, because he was at school this afternoon. My brother’s in his class,” said one of the Gunter girls.
“Where does he live?”