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Good evening.

Tonight I'll be meeting book two chapters four to six of the War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells.

So let your eyes form heavy and your breath soften as we settle in.

For a peaceful night's sleep.

Chapter four, The Death of the Curate.

It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peaked for the last time and presently found myself alone.

Instead of keeping close to me and trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone back into the scullery.

I was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and quietly into the scullery.

In the darkness I heard the curate drinking.

I snatched in the darkness and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy.

For a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck the floor and broke and I desisted and rose.

We stood panting and threatening each other.

In the end I planted myself between him and the food and told him of my determination to begin the discipline.

I divided the food in the pantry into rations to last us ten days.

I would not let him eat any more that day.

...