The mellow November sun came streaming into the room.

The sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air.

It was almost like a morning in May.
Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness.

He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion.

The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now.