. . .

It is down there, now, below there, now, Hans’ goat. It is sawing, sawing, sawing on the bars that make its pen.

It is tossing its head now, it is cutting the wooden boards of its enclosure’s ceiling with its great sharp head. Then it is back to its principal work. Its eyes gleam with goat-wroth — with that fey, hircine obsession with their own sharpness that is given to certain goats. It is sawing, sawing, sawing on the steel bars that are its cage.

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