I crumpled the newspaper into a ball and hurled it into the garden. Not satisfied, I retrieved it and marched out to the pit toilet to throw it down the hole. Newspapers are vessels for flagrant lies. Nothing in this world shoots the bull louder than a newspaper. I should be bad-mouthing the paper instead of vice-versa. And what's this about a 'brazen newcomer from Tōkyō?' Who in this world goes by 'brazen newcomer?' Think about it. I have a respectable family name and a given name. If they checked my pedigree they'd stand in awe of every noble ancestor.
When I washed my face, I felt a stinging in my cheek. I asked the old woman to lend me the mirror, and she asked if I'd read the morning's paper. I told her I'd read it and thrown it down the toilet. I added that if she wanted it she could go fetch it, and she withdrew in surprise. I examined my face in the mirror. The wound was unchanged from the day before. It was bad enough having my dear and precious face disfigured, but now they added insult to injury by calling me a 'brazen newcomer.'
Cowering at home on account of a country newspaper would constitute a lifelong disgrace, so I ate breakfast and set out early. As the others arrived, each and every one looked at my face with a smirk. What did they find amusing? This face was of my own making and shouldn't concern them. Noda arrived and congratulated me on my great exploits of the prior day, noting that I was bearing a wound of honor. He was looking to rub it in as payback for the beating he'd taken at the farewell party. I told him to shut up and go suck a paint brush. He backed off, but then started in about how much it must hurt. I shouted at him that hurt or not, it was my face and none of his business. After taking his own seat across the room, he continued to gaze at my face. Then he whispered something to the history teacher and snickered.