Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. " "Let me touch you, then; let me feel if you are really flesh and blood," cried the poor maniac, creeping towards him on all fours. The Night-Cellar. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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