One day I had a great desire, wherefore I do not know, unless out of pure bravado¹ and the spirit of perversity², to do something unseemly. After having searched all of one morning for this something I found it.  
It is well known that the swarms³ of flies which one finds in the south during the summer, and which contaminate everything are a veritable plague. I knew that there was a trap set for them in the middle of my uncle's kitchen. It was a treacherous⁴ pipe of a special shape, at the bottom of which, in the soapy pan of water there, the flies were invariably drowned. Now on the particular day in which I felt so devilish I bethought me of that disgusting blackish mass at the bottom of the vessel⁵, made up of the thousands of flies drowned during the past two or three days, and I wondered what sort of toothsome dish I should make of it, a pancake, perhaps, or better still, an omelette.
 
Quickly and nervously⁶, and with a loathing⁷ that almost made me

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