Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. Thus, in a few minutes, had this happy family been plunged into the depths of misery. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. Nothing at all. Rather a magniloquent term, perhaps, but what else am I to say? One of these is that the most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one’s troubles at all except of how to overcome them.
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