Why was it that he felt no fear?
Where was the terror that followed, as he had so often heard, upon murder?
Why was it that the dominant feeling in him should be that at last he had justified his existence?
In that furious blow there had leapt within him the creature that he had always been--the creature subdued, restrained, but always there--there through all this civilized existence; the creature that his father was, that his grandfather, that all his ancestors, had been.

He looked down.

The hulking body that had been Carfax made a hollow in the wet and broken fern.

The face was white, stupid, the cheeks hanging fat, horrible, the eyes staring.

One leg was twisted beneath the body.