“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing.⁠ ⁠… Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself.⁠ ⁠… I shall get well and I shall not worry.⁠ ⁠… But what if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him⁠—he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him.⁠ ⁠…