And she kill him."
But is that a reason to beat your wife and nearly kill her? It is, says
Anton. Well, then, why? Tell the judge, why you were so fond of this pig,
Anton.
Ah, yes, Anton Popapovitch, tell the judge why you loved this little pig
so much and made a home for him with mud in the bathtub. Why you dreamed
of him as you stood working in the factory? Why you ran home to him and
fed him and sat and looked at him and whispered "Nice little pig?" Why?
God knows. But Anton Popapovitch can't explain it. It must remain one of
the mysteries of our city, your honor. Call the next case. Put Anton
Popapovitch on parole. Perhaps it was because..., well, the matter is
ended. Anton Popapovitch sighs and looks with accusing eyes at his wife
Sofie, with accusing eyes that hint at evidence unheard.
THE LITTLE FOP
This little caricature of a fop, loitering in the hotel lobby, enthralled
by his own fastidiousness, gazing furtively at the glisten of his newly
manicured nails and shuddering with awe at the memory of the puckered
white silk lining inside his Prince of Wales derby--I've watched him for
more than a month now. Here he comes, his pointed button shoes, his
razor-edged trousers, his natty tan overcoat with its high waist band and
its amazing lapels that stick up over his shoulders like the ears of a
jackass, here he comes embroidered and scented and looking like a cross
between a soft-shoe dancer and a somnambulist.
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