The Death of a Man, a Memoir

Neighbour found george wilson sick in his office, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Mchaelis advised him to go to bed, but wilson refused saying that he'd miss a lot of business if he did. When they had torn open her shirt waist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap. The death car, as the newspapers called it, didn't stop. It came out of the gathering darkness wavered tragi for a moment, then disappeared round the next bend. Michaelus wasn't even sure of its color. He told the first policeman that it was like green.