The theme was a masquerade. His clothes were smartly pressed, his linen white, his jaws cleanly shaven; but the day would come when he would grow indifferent to bodily cleanliness. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. My nerves were in rags. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. The day had become suddenly overcast. I cannot turn into a bat.
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