No; he would not give in.
Hardly a minute after he had arrived at this resolution Vandover found himself drawing on his coat and shoes making ready to go out--to go out and eat.
The gas in the room was lit, his money, the nickel and the two dimes, was shut in one of his fists.

He was dressing himself with one hand, dressing with feverish, precipitate haste.

What had happened?
He marvelled at himself, but did not check his preparations an instant.

He could not stop, whether he would or no; there was something in him stronger than himself, something that urged him on his feet, that drove him out into the street, something that clamoured for food and that would not be gainsaid.

It was the animal in him, the brute, that would be fed, the evil, hideous brute grown now so strong that Vandover could not longer resist it--the brute that had long since destroyed all his finer qualities but that still demanded to be fed, still demanded to live.