Stephen turned out the light and crept away to the little room behind, thanking God for the fortunate sleepiness of his wife. The dreaded moment had passed.

He sat down wearily on the bed and tried to reduce the whirling tangle in his brain to order. He ought, of course, to be thinking things out, planning precautions, explanations, studied ignorances. But he was too muddled, too tired. God, how tired! Lugging that hateful sack about. And that awful row home⁠—more than a mile against the tide, though John had done most of that, good old John.⁠ ⁠… (There was something disturbing he had said to John, when they parted at last⁠—what the devil was it?⁠ ⁠… Something had slipped out.⁠ ⁠… An intangible, uneasy memory prodded him somewhere⁠ ⁠… no matter.) And then when he did get back, what a time he had had in the scullery, tidying the refuse on the floor, groping about under a table⁠ ⁠… hundreds of pieces of paper, grease-paper, newspaper, paper bags, orange skins, old tins, bottles.⁠ ⁠… He had gathered them all and put them in a bucket, a greasy bucket, with tea-leaves at the bottom⁠ ⁠… carried it down to the river on tiptoe⁠ ⁠… four journeys. God, what a night!