"That clerk was right," he said after a while. "It does go with the room."
Esthetically, the Regenerator was a success.
Caswell admired it for a few more moments, then went into the kitchen and fixed himself a chicken sandwich. He ate slowly, staring fixedly at a point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock.
Damn you, Magnessen! Dirty no-good lying shifty-eyed enemy of all that's decent and clean in the world....
Taking the revolver from his pocket, he laid it on the table. With a stiffened forefinger, he poked it into different positions.
It was time to begin therapy.
Except that....
Caswell realized worriedly that he didn't want to lose the desire to kill Magnessen. What would become of him if he lost that urge? His life would lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavor and zest. It would be quite dull, really.
Moreover, he had a great and genuine grievance against Magnessen, one he didn't like to think about.
Irene!