THE TELL-TALE NOSE
Atchoo!—runny—very, very dreadfully runny it had been and is; but why will you say that it is sore? The cold had numbed my nose—not pained—not tormented it. Above all was the sense of smell diminished. I sniffed nothing in the pantry or in the oven. I quivered no nostril at the laundry basket. No wonder the young man nearly caught me unawares, despite the condition of his socks! He has told you his version of the affair—it is time to hearken to mine.
I knew he wanted to kill me, on account of my eye. It bothered him, my blue iris, the eye of a vulture. Though myopic, it noted his anxiety, his increasing panic, observed all his little preparations with a cool, albeit hazy, detachment. He shuddered when I turned it upon him, as if the orb was a supernatural window into s
