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The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

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I was sure that she could hear us through <strong>the</strong><br />

murmur <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> fountain. In <strong>the</strong> awareness <strong>of</strong> being<br />

overheard, my words took on a certain appearance <strong>of</strong><br />

sincerity. Momoko was delighted that I was in such<br />

good spirits. She was congratulating herself, I could<br />

see, that we got on so nicely, though she did not know<br />

why.<br />

Tired <strong>of</strong> conversation, I took <strong>the</strong> medal from my<br />

collar and bit at it. Far from reproving me, Momoko<br />

laughed happily. I caught a taste <strong>of</strong> silver, and against<br />

my tongue it felt like an indissoluble pill. <strong>The</strong> chain<br />

brushed my lip and chin. It was pleasant all <strong>the</strong> same. I<br />

felt like a bored dog.<br />

Through <strong>the</strong> corner <strong>of</strong> my eye I saw that Nagisa had<br />

stood up. I knew from Momoko’s wide eyes that she<br />

was standing beside us.<br />

Suddenly a red-nailed hand was tugging at <strong>the</strong><br />

medal.<br />

“You’re not to eat my medal.”<br />

I stood up and introduced <strong>the</strong> two.<br />

“I’m sorry to have interrupted you.” Nagisa walked<br />

<strong>of</strong>f. “I’ll see you later.”<br />

Momoko was blanched and trembling.<br />

It was snowing. I spent a tedious Saturday afternoon<br />

at home. <strong>The</strong>re is a window at <strong>the</strong> landing <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong>

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