CHAPTER XXXI.
MAMMON, AND CONTENTMENT.
Ay, safe enough: and the murderer went to bed.

To bed?
No.
He tumbled about the clothes, to make it seem that he had lain there: but he dared neither lie down, nor shut his eyes.

Then, the darkness terrified him: the out-door darkness he could have borne, and Mrs.
Quarles's chamber always had a night-lamp burning: but the darkness of his own room, of his own thoughts, pressed him all around, as with a thick, murky, suffocating vapour.

So, he stood close by the window, watching the day-break.
As for sleep, never more did wholesome sleep revisit that atrocious mind: laudanum, an ever-increasing dose of merciless laudanum, that was the only power which ever seemed to soothe him.

For a horrid vision always accompanied him now: go where he might, do what he would, from that black morning to eternity, he went a haunted man--a scared, sleepless, horror-stricken wretch.