His dying reason flared up as red as blood again and said that he, Vasily Kashirin, might perhaps become insane here, suffer pains for which there is no name, reach a degree of anguish and suffering that had never been experienced by a single living being; that he might beat his head against the wall, pick his eyes out with his fingers, speak and shout whatever he pleased, that he might plead with tears that he could endure it no longer,--and nothing would happen.

Nothing could happen.
And nothing happened.

His feet, which had a consciousness and life of their own, continued to walk and to carry his trembling, moist body.
His hands, which had a consciousness of their own, endeavored in vain to fasten the coat which was open at his chest and to warm his trembling, moist body.
His body quivered with cold.

His eyes stared.

And this was calm itself embodied.
But there was one more moment of wild terror.