I believed that it was an idiosyncrasy of this wolf to
look upon my sheepfold as sacred from his depredations. I was
ashamed of any doubts that crossed my mind as to his loyalty, and
did not hesitate to thrust my lamb between his jaws. And while
he was giving the lie direct to my faith, I, poor fool, in my
despair was seeking madly for his aid in the deliverance of my
darling from the power of the dog.
I have felt I owe Hamdi Effendi an apology; for it is well that,
in the midst of this buffoon tragedy I find myself playing, I
should observe occasionally the decencies of conduct. But, on
the other hand, was he not amply repaid for moral injury by the
pure joy he must have felt while torturing me with his banter?
For all the deeper suffering, I am conscious of writhing under
lacerated vanity when I think of that grotesque and humiliating
blunder in the Hotel Metropole.
November 2d.
I have received news of the death of old Simon McQuhatty. In my
few lucid moments of late I had been thinking of seeking his
kindly presence.
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