How quickly the apparently solidly laid foundation of one's existence could crumble.

It was good, really, that this external world still existed, if only as a place of refuge.

She was indeed a girl of exquisite beauty. She was one of those languid women made of dark honey smooth and sweet and terribly sticky.

He decided in favor of life out of sheer spite and malice.

He was not bound. No one led him by the arm. He got out of the carriage as if he were a free man.

And finally - he was neither able nor willing to prevent it - the self-loathing dammed up inside him spilled over and gushed out, gushed out of glaring eyes that grew ever grimmer, angrier, beneath the rim of his cap, flooding the outside world as perfect, vulgar hate.

How quickly the apparently solidly laid foundation of one's existence could crumble.