My own position is as unpleasant as possible. Today Jane said to me:
“I wish you would get a meat knife in Oakville today, William.”
“What do you mean by a meat knife?”
“Just a good sharp knife,” she said, “with a long blade.”
“My dear,” I said, “anyone buying such a knife in Oakville today would be put into jail at once. Personally, I need razor blades, but I shall grow a beard like the sloop’s before I purchase any.”
“You could send for one, in town.”
And I could not tell her that such a proceeding would be even worse than the other.
Jane’s own attitude these days is curious. She is quite convinced, for instance, that she had a premonition of Carroway’s death the night she sent me to the slip. As she has no idea that this premonition of hers may be most unpleasant in its consequen
