“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. I didn’t understand. “I ate their mother first. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. Our ideal had fallen. "I won't trouble you further, Jack," he remarked.
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