CHAPTER III
THE GRINDING OF THE BRAKES
September 9
PETER and I have had a long, nasty quarrel, and I
had to pull his hair for him. It broke one of my nails.
I’ve let them go very long. I don’t know when I was
manicured last.
For some reason, they're dry and brittle. I must
have them done. I’d send the boy out, but I don’t like
the idea of a strange girl coming here. One never
knows what may go wrong. It doesn’t really matter,
either. The body is merely a nuisance, and it hurts.
“So blood wrenches its pain
Sardonic through heart and brain.”
I am beginning to hate that horrible poem. It haunts
me. I don’t know why I should remember it like I do.
Have I been reading it, I wonder? Or perhaps it
is the incredible access of intellectual power which heroin
gives that has improved my memory. Anyhow, the fact
is that odd bits of it come swimming into my mind like
goldfish darting in and out among streaming seaweed.
Oh, yes, my quarrel with Cockie. He said we mustn’t
risk being absolutely short of the suit ; and I must go
and get a new supply from Mabel before we ran clean
out. I can’t help seeing that Cockie is degenerating
morally. He ought to be ashamed of himself. He
ought to have made proper arrangements for a regular
supply instead of relying on me.
He lies there all the time perfectly useless. He
hasn’t washed or shaved in a month, and he knows
perfectly well that I detest dirt and untidiness. One
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