He could not keep quiet a second--to lie in bed was an
impossibility; he threw the bed-clothes from him and sprang up. He did
not light the gas, but threw on his bathrobe and began to walk the
floor. Even as he walked, his eyelids drooped lower and lower. The need
of sleep overcame him like a narcotic, but as soon as he was about to
lose himself he would be suddenly and violently awakened by the same
shock, the same jangling recoil of his nerves. Then his hands and head
seemed to swell; next, it was as though the whole room was too small for
him. He threw open the window and, leaning upon his elbows, looked out.
The clouds had begun to break, the rain was gradually ceasing, leaving
in the air a damp, fresh smell, the smell of wet asphalt and the odour
of dripping woodwork. It was warm; the atmosphere was dank, heavy,
tepid. One or two stars were out, and a faint gray light showed him the
vast reach of roofs below stretching away to meet the abrupt rise of
Telegraph Hill. Not far off the slender, graceful smokestack puffed
steadily, throwing off continually the little flock of white jets that
rose into the air very brave and gay, but in the end dwindled
irresolutely, discouraged, disheartened, fading sadly away, vanishing
under the night, like illusions disappearing at the first touch of the
outside world.
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