death.' A suffering look does what good looks can't do. But you have to be very starved for that. They used to give me food. That was a good time for me, because Garofoli had stopped giving me blows just then to see if it would hurt me more to go without supper, so when I got something to eat outside I didn't care. But one day Garofoli came along and saw me eating something, a bowl of soup that the fruiterer gave me, then he knew why I didn't mind going without supper at home. After that he made me stay at home and look after the soup here. Every morning before he goes out he puts the meat and the vegetables into the saucepan and locks the lid on, and all I have to do is to see that it boils. I smell the soup, but that's all. The smell of the soup doesn't feed you; it makes you more hungry. Am I very white? As I never go out now I don't hear people say so, and there's no mirror here."
"You don't seem any paler than others," I said.
"Ah, you say that because you don't want to frighten me, but I'm glad I'm sick. I want to be very ill."
I looked at him in amazement.
"You don't understand," he said, with a pitiful smile. "When one is very ill, they take care of you or they let you die. If they let me die it will be all over, I shan't be hungry any more, and there'll be no more beatings. And they do say that when we die we go up and live with God. Then, if
