Suddenly aware that his lips were dry, he poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table; the drink was lukewarm and sweetish to the taste.

Nauseated, he turned his head away from the glass, and found himself facing his image in the mirror upon the chest of drawers.

A wan, aging countenance with dishevelled hair stared back at him.

In a self-tormenting mood he allowed the corners of his mouth to droop as if he were playing the part of pantaloon on the stage; disarranged his hair yet more wildly; put out his tongue at his own image in the mirror; croaked a string of inane invectives against himself; and finally, like a naughty child, blew the leaves of his manuscript from the table on to the floor.
Then he began to rail against Marcolina again.

He loaded her with obscene epithets.