He asked himself whether he could think of using it as he had meant to, and then he let it fall upon the bit of green drugget by the bedside.
That was Paolo--it would not need any sharpened weapon to kill him now.
A little pressure on the throat, a pillow held over his face for a few moments, and it would all be over.

And what for?
To be pursued for ever by that same white face?
No.

It was not worth while, it had never been worth while, even were that all.

But there was something else to be considered.

Paolo might now die of his accident, in his bed.