Жах у музеї

           Wasitaonce-livingthingwhichsomeagencyhadflattened,suckeddryofblood,puncturedinathousandplaces,andwrungintoalimp,broken-bonedheapofgrotesqueness? AfteramomentJonesrealisedwhatitmustbe. Itwaswhatwasleftofadog—adog,perhapsofconsiderablesizeandwhitishcolour. Itsbreedwaspastrecognition,fordistortionhadcomeinnamelessandhideousways. Mostofthehairwasburnedoffasbysomepungentacid,andtheexposed,bloodlessskinwasriddledbyinnumerablecircularwoundsorincisions. Theformoftorturenecessarytocausesuchresultswaspastimagining. 

           Electrifiedwithapureloathingwhichconqueredhismountingdisgust,Jonessprangupwithacry.“ 

           Youdamnedsadist—youmadman—youdoathinglikethisanddaretospeaktoadecentman!” 

           Rogersdroppedtheburlapwithamalignantsneerandfacedhisoncomingguest.Hiswordsheldanunnaturalcalm.“ 

           Why,youfool,doyouthinkIdidthis? Letusadmitthattheresultsareunbeautifulfromourlimitedhumanstandpoint. Whatofit? Itisnothumananddoesnotpretendtobe. Tosacrificeismerelytooffer. IgavethedogtoIt. WhathappenedisItswork,notmine. Itneededthenourishmentoftheoffering,andtookitinItsownway. ButletmeshewyouwhatItlookslike.” 

           AsJonesstoodhesitating,thespeakerreturnedtohisdeskandtookupthephotographhehadlaidfacedownwithoutshewing. Nowheextendeditwithacuriouslook. Jonestookitandglancedatitinanalmostmechanicalway.