I had to leave the little feast.

I was hungry no longer, though a moment before it had seemed that I couldn't wait for it.

I walked out into the cold, raw night--walked till near daylight, with the sweat running off me.

And the thing I knew all the time was this: that if I were in hell and my father in heaven, he would blaspheme God to His face for a monster and come to hell to burn with me forever--come with a joke and a song, telling me never to mind, that we'd have a fine time there in hell in spite of everything! That was what I knew of my poor, cheap, fiddle-playing mountebank of a father.

Just a moment more--this is what you must remember of me, in whatever I have to say hereafter, that after that night I never ceased to suffer all the hell my father could be suffering, and I suffered it until my mind went out in that sickness.