Hush, hush, Mag; if you take on so, how can I tell you the rest?
Obermuller got in front of me as I started to walk into the
dining-room. I don't know what his idea was. I don't suppose he does
exactly--if it wasn't to spare me the sight of that damned thing.
Oh, how I hated it, that purse! I hated it as if it had been something
alive that could be glad of what it had done. I wished it was alive
that I could tear and rend it and stamp on it and throw it in a fire,
and drag it out again, with burned and bleeding nails, to tear it again
and again. I wanted to fall on it and hide it; to push it far, far
away out of sight; to stamp it down--down into the very bottom of the
earth, where it could feel the hell it was making for me.
But I only stood there, stupidly looking at it, having pushed past
Obermuller, as though I never wanted to see anything else.
And then I heard that blue-eyed fellow's words.
"Well," he said, pulling on his coat as though he'd done a good day's
work, "I guess you'd just better come along with me."