"When you were away there were nights when I did not sleep, could
not sleep, and strange ideas entered my head--to take a hatchet, for
instance, and go and kill everybody--mother, sister, the servants, our
dog. Of course they were only fancies, and I would never do so."
"I should hope not," smiled I, splashing about.
"Then, again, I am afraid of knives, of all that is sharp and shining;
it seems to me that if I were to take up a knife I should certainly
kill somebody with it. Now, is it not true--why should I not plunge it
into somebody, if it were sharp enough?"
"The argument is sufficient. What a queer fellow you are, brother! Just
open the hot-water tap."