He could have spat upon himself.
About three in the morning, chance, and the set of the current, and the bias of his own right-handed body, so decided it between them that he came to shore upon the beach in front of Attwater's.

There he sat down, and looked forth into a world without any of the lights of hope.

The poor diving dress of self-conceit was sadly tattered! With the fairy tale of suicide, of a refuge always open to him, he had hitherto beguiled and supported himself in the trials of life; and behold! that also was only a fairy tale, that also was folk-lore.

With the consequences of his acts he saw himself implacably confronted for the duration of life: stretched upon a cross, and nailed there with the iron bolts of his own cowardice.

He had no tears; he told himself no stories.
His disgust with himself was so complete that even the process of apologetic mythology had ceased.