Was death, then, not peace and an awakening to new things, but a wretched and dissociated clutching after the old? A wrench which only loosened but did not break our earthly ties?
It was well that Sperry came back when he did, bringing with him a breath of fresh night air and stalwart sanity. He found me still pacing the room.
“The thing I want to know,” I said fretfully, “is where this leaves us? Where are we? For God’s sake, where are we?”
“First of all,” he said, “have you anything to drink? Not for me. For yourself. You look sick.”
“We do not keep intoxicants in the house.”
“Oh, piffle,” he said. “Where is it, Horace?”
“I have a little gin.”
“Where?”
I drew a chair before the book-shelves, which in our old-fashioned house reach almost to the ceiling, and, withdrawing a volume of Josephus, I brought down the bottle.
“Now and then, when I have had a bad day,” I explained, “I find that it makes me sleep.”