Lee poured out another,
and a third; but they had no effect on him.
In spite of them he suffered a mild collapse of the nerves; his hands
were without feeling, at once like marble and wet with sweat; his heart
raced. A pervading weariness and discouragement followed this. He was
in a hellish mess, he told himself fiercely. The bravado of the words
temporarily gave him more spirit; yet there was nothing he could do but
go to bed. Nothing else had been even hinted at; he turned off the
lights and opened the windows. Flares of brightness continued to pass
before his eyes, and, disinclined to the possibilities of sleep, he
propped himself up with an extra pillow. Then, illogically, he wondered
if he had locked the door; at the instant of rising to find out, he
restrained himself--if, subconsciously, he had, chance and not he had
worked; for or against him, what did it matter?
He looked at the illuminated dial of his watch; the hands, the
numerals, greenly phosphorescent, were sharp; it was midnight. After
apparently an interminable wait he looked again--six minutes past
twelve. The rumble of an elevated train approached, hung about the
room, and receded. Death could be no more dragging than this. Why,
then, didn't he fall asleep? Lee went over and over every inflection of
Savina's final words to him; in them he tried, but vainly, to find
encouragement, promise, any decision or invitation.
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