Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.
"What am I doing ?" And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer: "Destroying myself." Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was wrong.

After a while, suddenly came the question: "Why wrong ?" Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his chest resisted his own annihilation.
There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road.

Suddenly the electric light went out; there was a bruising thud in the penny-in-the-slot meter.

He did not stir, but sat gazing in front of him.

Only the mice had scuttled, and the fire glowed red in the dark room.
Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation began again inside him.
"She's dead.