B. W. Wilson

“ The next morning the peasants found him hanging from a beam of his cottage. His arms were opened wide, and on his face was that pleaded, satiated smile; in his eyes a cold, hateful glint—fixed there forever. ”

“ Men who can forget their families, forget their wives, forget everything." He laughed: the raucous laugh of one who dreams a bad dream—a nightmare.
But Ivan could not always remain a boy. He grew; and with him grew deeper and blacker his obsessing hatred. No longer did he give vent to it in open acts of violence. He had learned that he could give his mother more pain by little acts of disobedience—contemptuous ignoring of her authority.
Sometimes, as she was tucking him into his bed at night, his body would grow rigid at her touch.
"Oh! How I hate you!" ”

“ He never imposed fines—he did not seem to care for money. But he was always out in the yard to see his sentence executed. As the blood oozed from the back of his tortured victim, freezing in the icy air, he smiled. ”