Look acrost the river, Lennie, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.

But the rabbit repeated softly over and over, "He gonna leave you, ya crazy bastard. He gonna leave ya all alone. He gonna leave ya, crazy bastard."

"Tend rabbits," it said scornfully. "You crazy bastard. You ain’t fit to lick the boots of no rabbit. You’d forget ’em and let ’em go hungry. That’s what you’d do. An’ then what would George think?"

"If I was alone I could live so easy." His voice was monotonous, had no emphasis. "I could get a job an’ not have no mess."

George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again.

You hadda, George. I swear you hadda.

"It don’t make no difference," George said, and he fell silent again.

"Never you mind," said Slim. "A guy got to sometimes."

And then from out of Lennie’s head there came a little fat old woman. She wore thick bull’s–eye glasses and she wore a huge gingham apron with pockets, and she was starched and clean.

Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.