''God damn it,'' he says again. He smooths his whiskers, his hair. He catches my eye. ''Don''t look, so uselessly. Have you no blood about you, to save me the pain? None of those—courses, that women suffer?'' I say nothing. His mouth twists again. ''Well, that is like you. I should have thought that, being obliged to bleed, you might as well bleed to some advantage; but, no . . .''
''Do you mean,'' I say, ''to insult me, in every possible way?''
''Be quiet,'' he answers. We are still speaking in whispers. ''This is for both our good. I don''t see you offering up your arm to the knife.'' At once, I offer it. He waves it away. ''No, no,'' he says. ''I shall do it,
in a moment.'' He draws in his breath, moves the blade further down his arm, rests it in one of the creases at the base of his palm, where the flesh is hairless. He pauses again, takes another breath; slices, quickly. ''Good Christ!'' he says, wincing. A little blood springs to the cut—it seems dark, in the candle-light, upon the white heel of his hand. He lets it fall to the bed. There is not much of it. He presses with his thumb at the skin of his wrist and palm, and then it falls faster. He does not catch my eye.