"I got to drink when Saturday night comes around." Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget.

Martin's Sunday was the same as before.
He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing.

He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself.

He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul.

All that was god-like in him was blotted out.