Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been
bent, too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the
thing could have come over again, he would have done it again. His
malignant and revengeful passions were not so easily laid. There was no
more penitence or remorse within him now than there had been while the
deed was brewing.
Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and
could not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that
infernal room at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way,
not only fearful FOR himself, but OF himself; for being, as it were, a
part of the room: a something supposed to be there, yet missing from it:
he invested himself with its mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in
his mind the ugly chamber, false and quiet, false and quiet, through the
dark hours of two nights; and the tumbled bed, and he not in it, though
believed to be; he became in a manner his own ghost and phantom, and was
at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.
When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and
was carried briskly onward towards home.
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