Then, as he thought of this, he realised that he was to meet a
score of persons, some of whom would very probably look at him
curiously. His nerves were in a shattered condition, he almost
broke down at the mere idea of what he must face. What would
become of him in the presence of the reality? And yet he had met
the whole household bravely enough on the very spot where he had
done the murder on the previous evening. He sat down, overpowered
by the revival of his fear and horror. The room swam around him
and he grasped the edge of the table for support. But he could not
stay there all day. Any reluctance to make his appearance at such
a time might be fatal. There was only one way to get the necessary
courage, and that was to drink again. He shrank from the thought.
He had not acquired the habitual drunkard's certainty of finding
nerve and boldness and steadiness of hand in the morning draught,
and the idea of tasting the liquor was loathsome to him in his
disordered state. He rose to his feet and tried to act as though
he were in the midst of a crowd of persons. Ape-like, he grinned
at the furniture, walked about the room, spoke aloud, pretending
that he was meeting real people, tried to frame sentences
expressive of profound grief.
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