Then a lot of sheep insisted on jumping together, and he could hardly count them--forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight....

He was asleep.
After a long, long time of soundlessness, of lying upon a sea that was like a bed of down, and looking up, happily into clear blue light, he was once more conscious of the rain.

Yes, there it was with its sweeping rush, its smash upon the pane, its withdrawal, its trickling patter and heavy drops as though it were striking time.

Yes, that was the rain and that--What was that?
He was wide awake, lying back against his pillow, but his eyes staring in front of them till they burnt.

The house was absolutely dark, absolutely silent, but between the attacks of the rain there was a wound, something that had not to do with the house nor with the weather.
He strained with his ears, sitting up in bed, his hands clutching the bed clothes.