At first I carried it about with me, not
caring to destroy it and not knowing what in the world to do with it
until, with the malice of inanimate things, the dirty dog's-eared bundle
took to haunting me, turning up continually in inconvenient places and
ever insistently demanding a new depository. At last I began to look
on it with loathing; and one day in a fit of inspiration, creating the
limbo aforesaid, I hurled the manuscript, as I thought, into everlasting
oblivion. I had no desire to carry on the record of my life any further,
and there, in limbo, it has remained for three years. But the other day
I took it out for reference; and now as I am holiday-making in a certain
little backwater of the world, where it is raining in a most unholiday
fashion, it occurs to me that, as everything has happened to me which is
likely to happen (Heaven knows I want no more excursions and alarums
in my life's drama), I may as well bring the narrative up to date. I
therefore take up the thread, so far as I can, from where I left off.
Pages:
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339