I lay and tortured myself--for the ginger biscuits merely emphasized the aching void--with the memory of all the good food I had thought so little of in London.

There were Paddock's crisp sausages and fragrant shavings of bacon, and shapely poached eggs--how often I had turned up my nose at them! There were the cutlets they did at the club, and a particular ham that stood on the cold table, for which my soul lusted.

My thoughts hovered over all varieties of mortal edible, and finally settled on a porterhouse steak and a quart of bitter with a welsh rabbit to follow.

In longing hopelessly for these dainties I fell asleep.
I woke very cold and stiff about an hour after dawn.

It took me a little while to remember where I was, for I had been very weary and had slept heavily.