Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. “You’ll have to take her!” shouted an inspector on horseback, and she echoed his cry: “You’ll have to take me!” They seized upon her and lifted her, and she screamed. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. No, this was imbecile.
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