We thought of him, with his eyes of ice and long bent fingers, he, who sits within in the darkest corner of the soul and tears our being to pieces, as old women shred up bits of silk and wool.
Bit by bit the long, hard, bent fingers had torn away, until our whole self lay there like a heap of rags, and our best feelings, our deepest thoughts, all that we had done and said, had been searched, explored, taken to pieces, gazed at by the icy eyes; and the toothless mouth had sneered and whispered—‘Behold, it is rags, only rags.’
