The Misfortune of Thomas Muggridge

Thomas Muggridge crawled weakly across the galley floor, and a short lurch of the ghosts set him staggering. In attempting to recover himself he reached for the iron railing, which surrounded the stove and kept the pots from sliding off. He missed the railing and his hand with his weight behind it. Lended squarely on the hot surface. There was a sizzle and odor of burning flesh and a sharp cry of pain. Oh, God, God, what have I done? The poor wretch was weeping again over his misfortunes. Less difficult it was to guess whom he hated than whom he did not hate. At such moments a great sympathy welled up within me

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