He turned out the light and crept slowly under the sheets. For a long time he lay staring at the dark, thinking now of Emily’s nightdress.⁠ ⁠… Probably it was marked⁠—in neat red letters⁠—Emily Gaunt. Probably the sacking would wear away where the rope went through it, dragging with the tide. Probably.⁠ ⁠… Hideous possibilities crowded back and gloom returned to him. And what was it he had said to John? He had forgotten about that. Something silly had slipped out, when John had looked so shocked, something intended to soothe John’s terrible conscience, something about “doing the right thing afterwards”⁠—after the baby had safely come. “I’ll put things right then,” he remembered saying. What the devil had he meant by that? What did John think he had meant? Hell!

Stephen threw off the blanket; he was sweating again.

When the cold chime of St. Peter’s struck three he lay still maddeningly awake in a feverish muddle of thought. Then at last he slept, dreaming wildly.