I, who had led him to miserable accident, to foul execution, or to horrible impulse—bred, perhaps, in the vile durances of the vast nation we had traversed.
Abrupt hate of life.
I lay in that hotel bedroom—they had told me that a Warsaw hospital was to be avoided—and rehearsed the placid, polite syllables of the specialist.
He had been interested, as one foreigner inspecting another, to observe reactions.
I had therefore been careful to exhibit none.
Alone, I could react.
As now, I thought of my wife and my daughter and the insurance and the banks.
And having finished with that, I turned to rue.
Feeble fool. Wretched clot!