She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Damn! I’ve splashed.
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