มันมีติดไม้ในบิตของเปียกและแววจับสายตาของมนุษย์มีวันที่ 24 มิถุนายน 1879 ฝังอยู่ข้างใน " ลึกลับ กันการกำหนดแขวนอยู่เป็นนิตย์ . . . . . . . "
And Comrade Ossipon raised his bowed head, beloved of various humble women of these isles, Apollo-like in the sunniness of its bush of hair.
The Professor had grown restless meantime. He rose.
“Stay,” said Ossipon hurriedly. “Here, what do you know of madness and despair?”
The Professor passed the tip of his tongue on his dry, thin lips, and said doctorally:
“There are no such things. All passion is lost now. The world is mediocre, limp, without force. And madness and despair are a force. And force is a crime in the eyes of the fools, the weak and the silly who rule the roost. You are mediocre. Verloc, whose affair the police has managed to smother so nicely, was mediocre. And the police murdered him. He was mediocre. Everybody is mediocre. Madness and despair! Give me that for a lever, and I’ll move the world. Ossipon, you have my cordial scorn. You are incapable of conceiving even what the fat-fed citizen would call a crime. You have no force.” He paused, smiling sardonically under the fierce glitter of his thick glasses.
“And let me tell you that this little legacy they say you’ve come into has not improved your intelligence. You sit at your beer like a dummy. Good-bye.”
“Will you have it?” said Ossipon, looking up with an idiotic grin.
“Have what?”
“The legacy. All of it.”