G. and I seemed to be sharing a sleeping room. Walking about there one morning, I noticed an offensive odor, and set out to find the source. I soon traced it to a table on which lay magazines and papers. Lifting several of these, I found a crumpled sheet of wrapping paper, and under this, in turn, an amputated arm, seemingly a child's. It was noticeable decomposing at the cut end. I took G. to task for leaving it there, but so far as I recall my feeling the annoyance was no stronger than I should have experienced if the paper had covered the untidy remains of a meal.