Her fair head, for she was a little shortsighted, sank down over the open volume; and Wolf, still seated opposite her on his kitchen-chair, was left to stare at the polished handles of the drawer that contained both Mukalog and the cheque.

His pleasant relapse into the comfort of virtue ebbed and vanished with the girl’s absorption in her story.

Tomorrow⁠ ⁠… tomorrow⁠ ⁠… what would the upshot be? He sat bolt upright in his chair, holding a matchbox in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. It was as if he were secretly praying for some unexpected external event, like a sudden uncharted reef, to break up the dark-swelling wave upon which he was being carried.

Soon he let both matchbox and cigarette slip from his fingers, and, lifting his elbows upon the table, pressed his knuckles against his closed eyeballs. How they throbbed⁠ ⁠… those eyeballs⁠ ⁠… and what surprising shapes and colours those were, that appeared before his inner vision!