“But, Egholm....”
“You are the serpent....”
His fist shot out into the dark, and struck, this time, not Anna, but the pale, bright girl who seemed to glide into her place.
“Oh—oh!” He writhed and groaned again, drawing in his breath between closed lips, as one who has suddenly cut a deep wound in his hand.
“Aren’t you well, dear?” It was Anna’s voice, close at hand.
He lay stiff and still, hardly breathing now. The interruption had driven the horrors away.
Ridiculous—but so it was with him. He remembered, for instance, having been haunted by a snake—one he had seen preserved in spirits at some railway station office or other ... yes. That had stopped, after a while, of itself. But it was worse with Clara’s picture. In a way, it was more beautiful, of course—oh, so beautiful....
He yawned audibly.
But he thought many other things out yet: of his business and his money affairs; of Vang and Vang’s domestic life; of an invention he wanted to get on with—a thing of almost world-revolutionary importance, a steam turbine, that could go forward or back like lightning. It would make him a rich man—a wealthy man....
A little later he dropped off to sleep, lying on his back, and breathing still in little unsteady gasps.