Once upon a time a man lay dying.
He was dying very much at his ease, for he had had enough of it all.
None the less they brought a priest, who stretched his face a yard
long and spoke from his elastic-sided boots.
"This is a solemn moment," said the priest. "But sooner or later it
comes to us all. You are fortunate in having all your faculties."
The dying man smiled grimly.
"Is there any wrong that you have done that you wish redressed?" the
priest asked.
"None that I can remember," said the dying man.
"But you are sorry for such wrong as you have done?"
"I don't know that I am," said the dying man. "I was a very poor hand
at doing wrong. But there are some so-called good deeds that I could
wish undone which are still bearing evil fruit."
The priest looked pained. "But you would not hold that you have not
been wicked?" he said.
"Not conspicuously enough to worry about," replied the other. "Most of
my excursions into what you would call wickedness were merely attempts
to learn more about this wonderful world into which we are projected.
It's largely a matter of temperament, and I've been more attracted by
the gentle things than the desperate.
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