ain, turning upon his
pillow, closing his eyes, very weary, longing for a good night's sleep.
Dolly Haight's terrible story, his unjustified fate, and the hopeless
tragedy of it, came back to him. Vandover would gladly have changed
places with him. Young Haight had the affection and respect of even
those that knew. He, Vandover, had thrown away his friends' love and
their esteem with the rest of the things he had once valued. His
thoughts, released from all control of his will, began to come and go
through his head with incredible rapidity, confused ideas,
half-remembered scenes, incidents of the past few days, bits and ends of
conversation recalled for no especial reason, all galloping across his
brain like a long herd of terrified horses; an excitement grew upon
him, a strange thrill of exhilaration. He was broad awake now, but
suddenly his left leg, his left arm and wrist, all his left side jerked
with the suddenness of a sprung trap; so violent was the shock that the
entire bed shook and creaked with it. Then the inevitable reaction
followed, the slow crisping and torsion of his nerves, twisting upon
each other like a vast swarm of tiny serpents; it seemed to begin with
his ankles, spreading slowly to every part of his body; it was a
veritable torture, so poignant that Vandover groaned under it, shutting
his eyes. He could not keep quiet a second--to lie in bed was an
impossibility; he threw the bed-clothes from him and sprang up. He did
not light the gas, but threw on his bathrobe and began to walk the
floor. Even as he walked, his eyelids drooped lower and lower. The need
of sleep overcame him like a narcotic, but as soon as he was about to
lose himself he would be suddenly and violently awakened by the same
shock, the same jangling recoil of his nerves. Then his hands and head
seemed to swell; next, it was as though the whole room was too small for
him. He threw open the window and, leaning upon his elbows, looked out.

The clouds had begun to break, the rain was gradually ceasing, leaving
in the air a damp, fresh smell, the smell of wet asphalt and the odour
of dripping woodwork. It was warm; the atmosphere was dank, heavy,
tepid. One or two stars were out, and a faint gray light showed him the
vast reach of roofs below stretching away to meet the abrupt rise of
Telegraph Hill. Not far off the slender, graceful smokestack puffed
steadily, throwing off continually the little flock of white jets that
rose into the