He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Never in his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away the restraint which was his second nature. He had a stripped and naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of him⁠—life meaningless, mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The scene he had passed through had gone from him already, what was before him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. “I’m not fit for it,” he thought; “I mustn’t⁠—I’m not fit for it.” The cab sped on, and in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no significance. “I feel very queer,” he thought; “I’ll take a Turkish bath.⁠—I’ve been very near to something. It won’t do.” The cab whirred its way back over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, along the Park.

“To the Hammam,” said Soames.