“Oh, all right,” he said, too much dazed to know what it meant. He heard his daughter going downstairs. Then swiftly returned over him the throbbing ache of his head and his arms, the discordant jarring of his body.
“What made her bring me the letters?” he asked himself. It was a very unusual attention. His heart replied, very sullen and shameful: “She wanted to know; she wanted to make sure I was all right.”
Siegmund forgot all his speculations on a divine benevolence. The discord of his immediate situation overcame every harmony. He did not fetch in the letters.
“Is it so late?” he said. “Is there no more time for me?”
He went to look at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. As he walked across the room he trembled, and a sickness made his bones feel rotten. He sat down on the bed.
“What am I going to do?” he asked himself.
By this time he was shuddering rapidly. A peculiar feeling, as if his belly were turned into nothingness, made him want to press his fists into his abdomen. He remained shuddering drunkenly, like a drunken man who is sick, incapable of thought or action.
A second knock came at the door. He started with a jolt.
“Here is your shaving-water,” said Beatrice cold tones. “It’s half-past nine.”
“All right,” said Siegmund, rising from the bed, bewildered.
“And what time shall you expect dinner?” asked Beatrice. She was still contemptuous.
