“He⁠ ⁠… will⁠ ⁠… for⁠—” The sound of this ghastly susurration seemed to come from under the bedclothes, from under the bed, from under the floor, from under the bookshop beneath the floor, from under the clay-bottom of Blacksod.⁠ ⁠…

“For⁠—” The repetition of the syllable seemed like the echo of an echo; but Wolf became aware of a shocking twitching in the muscles of the old man’s face.

“For⁠—”⁠ ⁠…

A wave of atavistic sentiment rose up in Wolf’s throat from countless centuries of Christian unction. He found the word “forgive” quivering on the tip of his tongue, and recklessly he let it descend, like a drop of consecrated oil, on the man’s dying. His idea was that Mr. Malakite was confusing the one person he had ever respected with some obscure First Cause. Then he found himself staggering back.