“So Mr. She could not help herself. Unlocking a cupboard, he then took out some cold meat and other viands, with a flask of wine, and a bottle of brandy, and began to eat and drink voraciously. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. ’ ‘Well, but he was a deserter, you see. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you.
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