"
He nodded without looking at her, and closed the door behind him.
When she came to the bedroom a half-hour later, his face was turned to
the wall. She spoke, but he did not answer. She thought he was asleep. He
was not asleep. He was only thinking how to do the thing which was not
obvious, which was also safe for himself. That should be his triumph, if
he could but achieve it.
When she came to bed he did not stir, and he did not answer her when she
spoke.
"The poor Jean Jacques!" he heard her say, and if there had not been on
him the same courage that possessed him the night when the Antoine was
wrecked, he would have sobbed.
He did not stir. He kept thinking; and all the time her words, "The poor
Jean Jacques!" kept weaving themselves through his vague designs. Why had
she said that--she who had deceived, betrayed him? Had he then seen what
he had seen?
She did not sleep for a long time, and when she did it was uneasily. But
the bed was an immense one, and she was not near him. There was no sleep
for him--not even for an hour. Once, in exhaustion, he almost rolled over
into the poppies of unconsciousness; but he came back with a start and a
groan to sentient life again, and kept feeling, feeling along the wall of
purpose for a masterly way to kill.
At dawn it came, suddenly spreading out before him like a picture.
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