At seven o'clock, in the bedroom of his ranch house, in the white-painted iron bedstead with its blue-grey army blankets and red counterpane, Annixter was still asleep, his face red, his mouth open, his stiff yellow hair in wild disorder.

On the wooden chair at the bed-head, stood the kerosene lamp, by the light of which he had been reading the previous evening.

Beside it was a paper bag of dried prunes, and the limp volume of "Copperfield," the place marked by a slip of paper torn from the edge of the bag.
Annixter slept soundly, making great work of the business, unable to take even his rest gracefully.

His eyes were shut so tight that the skin at their angles was drawn into puckers.

Under his pillow, his two hands were doubled up into fists.