"The odour of the sicksweet weed floats towards him in slow round ovalling wreaths.)
Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. (The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail.) Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today."