The way in which I listened to all the incidents of the house that made themselves audible to me; the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring of voices, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything else to me in my solitude and disgrace⁠—the uncertain pace of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake thinking it was morning, and find that the family were not yet gone to bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come⁠—the depressed dreams and nightmares I had⁠—the return of day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard, and I watched them from a distance within the room, being ashamed to show myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner⁠—the strange sensation of never hearing myself speak⁠—the fleeting intervals of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking, and went away with it⁠—the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and the church, until it and gathering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and remorse⁠—all this appears to have gone round and round for years instead of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance.