"If I can't, I can't, that is all."
"You can. There is the story in your hands. Think what it will do
for you. It is one of the immortal stories--"
"You have read it, then?" I asked.
"Haven't you?"
"Yes--but--"
"It is the same," it said, with a leer and a contemptuous shrug.
"You and I are inseparable. Aren't you glad?" it added, with a laugh
that grated on every fibre of my being. I was too overwhelmed to
reply, and it resumed: "It is one of the immortal stories. We agree
to that. Published over your name, your name will live. The stuff
you write yourself will give you present glory; but when you have
been dead ten years people won't remember your name even--unless I
get control of you, and in that case there is a very pretty though
hardly a literary record in store for you."
Again it laughed harshly, and I buried my face in the pillows of my
couch, hoping to find relief there from this dreadful vision.
"Curious," it said. "What you call your decent self doesn't dare
look me in the eye! What a mistake people make who say that the man
who won't look you in the eye is not to be trusted! As if mere
brazenness were a sign of honesty; really, the theory of decency is
the most amusing thing in the world.
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