He took off his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away
and sinking in the river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard.
These precautions taken, he undressed and went to bed.
The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the
clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his
view; the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every
sound, and thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking
which should bring the news; the starts with which he left his couch,
and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written
in his face, and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the
blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the
bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like these!
The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the
blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread
outside his own door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his
mouth was dry as if it had been filled with sand. At last he sat up in
his bed, and cried:
'Who's there?'
It was his wife.
Pages:
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365