“I am on my own ground!” Rowley shouted. He could imagine what he looked like, with firelight dancing off his spectacles and scalpels shining in his hand. “ ’I am surrounded by the trophies of my art, and my tools is very handy.’ ” He jabbed with the scraping blade as the arsonist made a movement, and amazingly, gloriously, the man recoiled. “ ’I like my art, and I know how to exercise my art,’ and I will stuff you and mount you and put you in a case, you fucking bastard!”
