He turned his head to one side. He looked at his hands which lay beside him as though not belonging to him, thrown away, bled white.
Knuckles knocked raw ... shreds of skin ... brownish crusts ... were these his hands?
He stared at the ceiling. It was black, as if charred. He stared at the walls; grey, cold walls....
Where was he—? He was tortured by thirst and a ravenous hunger. But worse than the hunger and thirst was the weariness which longed for sleep and which could not find it.
Maria occurred to him....
Maria?... Maria—?
He jerked himself up and stood on sawn-through ankles. His eyes sought for doors: There was one door. He stumbled up to it. The door was closed, was latchless, would not open.
His brain commanded him: Don’t be surprised at anything.... Don’t let anything startle you.... Think....
Over there, there was a window. It had no frame. It was a pane of glass set into stone. The street lay before it—one of the great streets of the great Metropolis, seething with human beings.
The glass window-pane must be very thick. Not the least sound entered the room in which Freder was captive, though the street was so near.