Sleepy, He Said.

He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyers, and he had sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. Everything had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange, insistent object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. It was I who put the stuff in the melon, he said. He didn't want you to think I'm sorry for it. This isn't remorse, understand. My sister married miserably, then died, and I've never had what I wanted. The old skin flint is dead. I'm glad the others have their money. Mine's no use to me anymore.