He kept thinking; and all the time her words, "The poor Jean Jacques!" kept weaving themselves through his vague designs.

Why had she said that--she who had deceived, betrayed him?
Had he then seen what he had seen?
She did not sleep for a long time, and when she did it was uneasily.

But the bed was an immense one, and she was not near him.

There was no sleep for him--not even for an hour.

Once, in exhaustion, he almost rolled over into the poppies of unconsciousness; but he came back with a start and a groan to sentient life again, and kept feeling, feeling along the wall of purpose for a masterly way to kill.
At dawn it came, suddenly spreading out before him like a picture.