If she had moaned or wept or complained, he could
have borne it better; but she seemed entirely withdrawn from him.
Even when a little strength returned, they feared for her reason.
She seemed unaware of where she was, of what had happened, of all
about her. The night was the worst time of all. Howard, utterly
wearied out, would go to bed, and sink into sleep, sleep so
profound that it seemed like descending into some deep and
oblivious tide; then a current of misery would mingle with his
dreams, a sense of unutterable depression; and then he would
suddenly wake in the grip of fear, formless and bodiless fear. The
smallest sound in the house, the creaking of a door, a footfall,
would set his heart beating with fierce hammer strokes. He would
light his candles, wander restlessly about, gaze out from his
window into the blackness of the garden, where the trees outlined
themselves against the dark sky, pierced with stars; or he would
try to read, but wholly in vain. No thought, no imagination seemed
to have any meaning for him, in the presence of that raging dread.
Had he, he wondered, come in sight of the ultimate truth of life?
The pain he suffered seemed to him the strongest thing in the
world, stronger than love, stronger than death. The thick tides of
the night swept past him thus, till the light began to outline the
window crannies; and then there was a new day to face, with failing
brain and shattered strength.
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