The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

and so long as it was to the Tōru seen by others, the
offer of alms was an offer to a shadow of the real
Tōru, quite incapable of wounding his self-respect.
Tōru was secure.
But were the motives of the man so
incomprehensible? There was nothing in the least
incomprehensible about them. Tōru understood
perfectly. The victim of boredom is quite capable of
selling a world to a rag-picker.
His knees in his arms, Tōru was nodding
sleepily. He had made up his mind. But good
manners demanded that he defer his assent until the
superintendent could be a little prouder of the sweat
he had expended.
He was happier than ever with his faculty for not
dreaming. He had lighted mosquito repellent for the
benefit of the superintendent, but the mosquitoes
were at his own feet and ankles. The itching shone
through his drowsiness like moonlight. He thought
vaguely that he must again wash the hands with which
he was scratching.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re sleepy. You have every right
to be. The night’s practically over. Dear me. Eleven
thirty already. I’ve stayed much too long. So the story
sounds good to you? You agree?” As he stood up to