"Please, Hewet, if you must go to bed, draw my curtain.

Few things distress me more than the moonlight." Hewet retreated, pressing the poems of Thomas Hardy beneath his arm, and in their beds next door to each other both the young men were soon asleep.
Between the extinction of Hewet's candle and the rising of a dusky Spanish boy who was the first to survey the desolation of the hotel in the early morning, a few hours of silence intervened.

One could almost hear a hundred people breathing deeply, and however wakeful and restless it would have been hard to escape sleep in the middle of so much sleep.
Looking out of the windows, there was only darkness to be seen.

All over the shadowed half of the world people lay prone, and a few flickering lights in empty streets marked the places where their cities were built.

Red and yellow omnibuses were crowding each other in Piccadilly; sumptuous women were rocking at a standstill; but here in the darkness an owl flitted from tree to tree, and when the breeze lifted the branches the moon flashed as if it were a torch.