The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

guard examining a pass. His questioning eyes looked
up at Honda and back again at the picture. Then
came boyish curiosity, and he flushed to the ears.
Putting the photograph back on the table, he plunged
a rough finger into an ear.
“She is very beautiful,” he said, a touch of anger in
his voice.
Very, very splendid, thought Honda. There was
something poetic in the youthfulness of the response
(and it had been in a moment of crisis). Honda forgot
that Tōru had responded as he had wanted him to
respond.
It was a complex amalgam, as if Honda’s selfawareness
had itself for an instant played a boyish
role, hiding confusion with a touch of roughness.
“Would you like to meet her?” Honda asked quietly.
He coughed somewhat nervously, hoping that the
next response would be as appropriate. Tōru sprang
lightly to his feet and went over to beat on Honda’s
back.
“Yes.”
The word was almost a growl. Taking advantage of
the fact that his father could not see, his eyes were
aglow as he said to himself: “The wait has been worth
it. Here is someone worth injuring.”
Yet farther on, beyond the window, it was raining. A