And as he folded his hands behind his head, looking across at Gerda and her Icelander, he set himself to curse the misery the human mind can go through because of this wretched necessity for action, for decision, for using what is called “the will.” What did a person feel when the hard little crystal of his inmost life lost its integrity? What did food taste like, what did the warmth of fire mean to such a derelict? A Wolf who had gone back to that book ⁠ ⁠… a Wolf who had seduced Christie⁠ ⁠… how could such a Wolf ever swing his stick, ever drink up “the sweet of the morning,” ever feel the wind upon his face, with the old thrill?