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A NARRATIVE OF SHAME
I am a very, very old man now, with rough, wrinkly skin and less hair than I used to have --- yet not yet have I forgotten my grief and shame.

How could I in the first place? For so sadly was my happy fancy beguiled into frowning, for here was I embarrassed into having this horrid shame; for there I was, excessively killing this man.

Do not think that my tale hath happened so much a little bit of a while ago, for the tale that I shall relate is from those ungainly days of yore, wherefore was I at the age of thirty-two. This man I had killed, I must say, was a kind man, who was very loyal to our friendship; the whole reason why I killed him is hard to explain; yet, explain I must.

It was for we had first met at the same bookstore; at this time I was more introverted than was I extroverted, though this other young man was...