"Ay, ay," he answered, his countenance resuming its customary aspect of
resigned melancholy. "I be a brand plucked from the burning, I be. There
beant much wrong wi' Deacon Sawyers, now."
"And it was your wife that made you good, wasn't it?" I persisted,
determined, now that I had started this investigation, to obtain
confirmation at first hand on all points.
At the mention of his wife his features became suddenly transformed.
Glancing hurriedly round, to make sure, apparently, that no one but
myself was within hearing, he leaned across and hissed these words into
my ear--I have never forgotten them, there was a ring of such evident
sincerity about them--
"I'd like to skin her, I'd like to skin her alive."
It struck me, even in the light of my then limited judgment, as an
unregenerate wish; and thus early my faith in the possibility of man's
reformation received the first of those many blows that have resulted in
shattering it.
Nature, whether human or otherwise, was not made to be reformed. You can
develop, you can check, but you cannot alter it.
You can take a small tiger and train it to sit on a hearthrug, and to lap
milk, and so long as you provide it with hearthrugs to lie on and
sufficient milk to drink, it will purr and behave like an affectionate
domestic pet.
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