And my mind was as restless as my body.

One after another the follies and meannesses, the failures and sins of my life in London, rose up before me and stared me in the face.
Try all I would, I could not get rid of them.

I tried to think of other things--of books I had read, of stories I had heard, of places I had seen, of Stonebridge House, of Brownstroke--but no, the thought of my pitiful career in London, my debts, my evil acquaintances, my treachery to my friend, would come and come and come, and drive out all else.

And all the while I seemed to see Jack's solemn face looking reproachfully at me from the bottom of the bed, just as it had looked at me that morning weeks ago at Hawk Street.

Once, instead of being at the bottom of the bed, I found it close beside me, saying-- "What is it, old boy ?" "Eh?
nothing.