Tsiganok now felt like standing still, like spreading his legs and standing--but a whirling current of thoughts carried him away and there was nothing at which he could clutch--everything about him swam.

And his sleep also became uneasy.

Dreams even more violent than his thoughts appeared--new dreams, solid, heavy, like wooden painted blocks.

And it was no longer like a current, but like an endless fall to an endless depth, a whirling flight through the whole visible world of colors.
When Tsiganok was free he had worn only a pair of dashing mustaches, but in the prison a short, black, bristly beard grew on his face and it made him look fearsome, insane.

At times Tsiganok really lost his senses and whirled absurdly about in the cell, still tapping upon the rough, plastered walls nervously.