of mercy? Why not undo? Have I ever tormented--day by day, some retched worm--making filth for it to trail through, filth that disgusts it, starving it, bruising it, mocking it? Why should you? Your jokes are clumsy. Try--try some milder fun up there; do you hear? Something that doesn't hurt so infernally.
"You say this is your purpose--your purpose with me. You are making something with me--birth pangs of a soul. Ah! How can I believe you? You forget I have eyes for other things. Let my own case go, but what of that frog beneath the cart-wheel, God?--and the bird the cat had torn?"
And after such blasphemies I would fling out a ridiculous little debating society hand. "Answer me that!"
A week ago it had been moonlight, white and black and hard across the spaces of the park, but now the light was livid and full of the quality of haze. An extraordinary low white mist, not three feet above the ground, drifted broodingly across the grass, and the trees rose ghostly out of that phantom sea. Great and shadowy and strange was the world that night, no one seemed abroad; I and my little cracked voice drifted solitary through the silent mysteries. Sometimes I argued as I have told, sometimes I stumbled along in moody vacuity, sometimes my torment was vivid and acute.
