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After ten minutes George showed some signs of consciousness. Andy pulled out a flask and poured whisky down his mouth. Suddenly George put his hand to his head. ‘Where the hell is my left ear?’ he asked angrily. It was gone—shot off. George cursed so completely and satisfactorily that we knew he was in no serious danger. ‘Better have no ears at all,’ Andy said to him, ‘than to have the kind you had that stick out at right angles. No wonder your left ear stopped a bullet.’
But she felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what.
His wife wasn’t reasonable about such things. She quarrelled with him when he didn’t tell her anything, and yet he was sure she would have been angry with him if he had said very much about it.
Meetings on the stairs, you know, and exchanging bows and small talk.’ He hated those trivial conventionalities of society, in which other people delight. When somebody once asked him in what company he felt most at ease? He made a shocking answer—he said, ‘In the company of dogs.’
