Hisnighthadbeenuntroubledbyanyimagesofpleasureorofpain。Butyouthsmileswithoutanyreason。Itisoneofitschiefestcharms。
Heturnedround，andleaninguponhiselbow，begantosiphischocolate。ThemellowNovembersuncamestreamingintotheroom。Theskywasbright，andtherewasagenialwarmthintheair。ItwasalmostlikeamorninginMay。
Graduallytheeventsoftheprecedingnightcreptwithsilent，blood-stainedfeetintohisbrainandreconstructedthemselvestherewithterribledistinctness。Hewincedatthememoryofallthathehadsuffered，andforamomentthesamecuriousfeelingofloathingforBasilHallwardthathadmadehimkillhimashesatinthechaircamebacktohim，andhegrewcoldwithpassion。Thedeadmanwasstillsittingthere，too，andinthesunlightnow。Howhorriblethatwas！Suchhideousthingswereforthedarkness，notfortheday。
Hefeltthatifhebroodedonwhathehadgonethroughhewouldsickenorgrowmad。Thereweresinswhosefascinationwasmoreinthememorythaninthedoingofthem，strangetriumphsthatgratifiedthepridemorethanthepassions，andgavetotheintellectaquickenedsenseofjoy，greaterthananyjoytheybrought，orcouldeverbring，tothesenses。
Butthiswasnotoneofthem。Itwasathingtobedrivenoutofthemind，tobedruggedwithpoppies，tobestrangledlestitmightstrangleoneitself。