So he opened the razor and laid it to his wrist. He felt the good weight of it there. He was in full earnest. From the dining room below came the murmur of Croat voices and the waft of pigs’ toes in their rendered fat—were these now the last of his senses? The razor would deny all destiny. There would be too much pain in his destiny to bear—he knew this already. It was to be read in the white aching of the sky beyond his tiny window. But as quickly as the thought had come he folded the razor again with care and stored it neatly and he was sorrowful— Because what kind of a fucking Irishman
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