A little frog, croaking beneath
his feet, burst like an acorn. He slipped, and with a cry of disgust
sprang aside. Mechanically he wiped his foot for a long while on the
wet grass, feeling a cold shiver down his back.
He frowned. Disgust mental and physical made him think that all things
were revolting and abominable. He groped his way to a seat, and sat
there, staring vacantly at the garden, seeing only broad black patches
amid the general gloom. Sad, dismal thoughts drifted through his brain.
He looked across to where in the dark grass that poor little frog was
dying, or perhaps, after terrible agony, lay dead. A whole world had,
as it were, been destroyed; an individual and independent life had come
to a hideous and, yet utterly unnoticed and unheard.
And then, by ways inscrutable, Yourii was led to the strange,
disquieting thought that all which went to make up a life, the secret
instincts of loving or of hating that involuntarily caused him to
accept one thing and to reject another; his intuitive sense regarding
good or bad; that all this was merely as a faint mist, in which his
personality alone was shrouded.
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