He looked up and saw the bottle. An
irresistible desire seized him to taste the liquor again, even if
he drank but a drop. The spirits wet his lips while he was still
inwardly debating whether it were wise to drink or not. As he
returned the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him
of all he had experienced before. His face was warm, his fingers
tingled. He took up one of the deeds with a firm hand and settled
himself comfortably in his chair. But he could not read it through
again. He laughed quietly at his folly. Did he not know every word
by heart? He must occupy himself with planning, with arranging the
details of his future. When that was done he could revel in the
thought of wealth and rest and satisfied vanity.
To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as connectedly as he
had expected. He could not help thinking of the dead man
downstairs, not indeed with any terror, not fearing discovery for
himself, but with a vague wonderment that made his mind feel
empty. Turn over the matter as he would, he could not foresee
connectedly what was likely to happen when the murder was known.
There was no sequence in his imaginings, and he longed nervously
for the moment when everything should be settled. The restlessness
that had brought him up to his room demanded some sort of action
to quiet it.
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