“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Wood's famous 'prentice?" "What apprentice?" asked the stranger, in surprise. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind.
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