The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

clouds drifted by. The wind carried to the world the cat
fragrance, the heavy snores were music.”
“You’re talking about authority now.” Tōru felt
compelled to put in a word of recognition.
Furusawa’s face broke into a good-natured smile.
“Yes. You’re very quick.”
Tōru was disappointed. It had ended up as the sad
sort of political parable the young are so fond of.
“You’ll understand some day yourself.” Although
there was no danger of being overheard, Furusawa
lowered his voice and brought his face close to
Tōru’s. Tōru remembered the smell of his breath,
forgotten for a time.
Why had he forgotten? He had smelled Furusawa’s
breath frequently enough in the course of their
lessons. He had not been especially repelled by it; but
now he was.
There had been no touch of malice in the story, and
yet it had somehow angered Tōru. He did not choose
to reprove Furusawa for it, however, and feared that
to do so would be only to lower himself. He needed
another reason, a quite adequate one, for disliking
and even being angry at Furusawa. So the smell of
his breath became unendurable.
Oblivious to what was happening, Furusawa went
on: “You’ll understand, one of these days. With