"Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. . I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Well, he was executed for murder. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun.
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