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paraffine and arranged the lamps and can even as he had designed,
and made a fine inflammable pile of things in the little parlour
behind the shop. "Looks pretty arsonical," he said as he surveyed it
all. "Wouldn't do to have a caller now. Now for the stairs!"
"Plenty of time," he assured himself, and took the lamp which was to
explain the whole affair, and went to the head of the staircase
between the scullery and the parlour. He sat down in the twilight with
the unlit lamp beside him and surveyed things. He must light the fire
in the coal cellar under the stairs, open the back door, then come up
them very quickly and light the paraffine puddles on each step, then
sit down here again and cut his throat.
He drew his razor from his pocket and felt the edge. It wouldn't hurt
much, and in ten minutes he would be indistinguishable ashes in the
blaze.
And this was the end of life for him!
The end! And it seemed to him now that life had never begun for him,
never! It was as if his soul had been cramped and his eyes bandaged
from the hour of his birth. Why had he lived such a life? Why had he
submitted to things, blundered into things? Why had he never insisted
on the things he thought beautiful and the things he desired, never
sought them, fought for them, taken any risk for them, died rather
than abandon them? They were the things that mattered. Safety did not
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