He seemed to have been literally beside himself with anger and his words, his thoughts, his actions had been controlled by a force and a possession which was outside himself.

Also the dreadful reality of his dream still a little unnerved him, and though he was himself now and awake, he felt that he had been no less himself when he throttled the throat of that abhorred figure that walked up the noiseless path over the downs to Brighton, and with vehement and savage blows clubbed it down.

And then the shock of finding it was his old friend whom he had done to death! That, it is true, was nightmare pure and simple, but all the rest was clad in sober, convincing garb of events that had really taken place.

He could not at once separate his dream from reality, for indeed what had he done yesterday after he had learned who his traducer had been?
He scarcely knew; all events and facts seemed colourless compared to the rage and mad lust for vengeance which had occupied his entire consciousness.
Thus, as he dressed, the thoughts and the rage of yesterday began to stir and move in his mind again.

His hate and his desire that justice should be done, that satisfaction should be granted him, was still in his heart.
But now they were not wild and flashing flames; they burned with a hard, cold, even light.