Gurdweill thought that he would go mad. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He sat up with a jerk and began searching frenziedly for the matches on the chair. He lit one and glanced at his watch. Five to four. He held the burning match until it seared the tips of his fingers, and then lit another and another. For the first time in his life he was afraid of the dark and his own frantic thoughts. He glanced at the bed next to him. Thea was sleeping with her face turned away from him, towards the window. If he listened intently, he could hear her quiet, rhythmic breathing. Apart from that, nothing stirred. The stillness was dense and juicy, full of her alien sleep. And the little flame flared and flickered and faded like a mirage, faded and flared again as he hastily lit another match. Gurdweill was suddenly swept by a terrible rage against this woman next to him, as if she were the sole reason for all his suffering, from the day that he was born. The child vanished from his thoughts. It was all one to him now. All he saw was this tall woman, sweeping him up in her arms and capering round the room with him. He felt a terrible insult, an insult that shook him to the foundations of his being, and at that moment he hated her with a deadly hatred. He could easily have risen from the couch, dressed himself, and gone away, far, far away, never to return. It was all one to him! He didn’t need anyone, anything! But at the same time he felt quite clearly that he would never, never be capable of doing it; that he was enslaved to this woman forever, in life and in death; that his fate was chained to hers, irrevocably. And then he remembered the child again and he said to himself: ‘Nonsense! I love her in spite of everything. It’s amazing how one sleepless night can drive a man out of his mind: no wonder crimes are committed at night! When a man can’t sleep he’s capable of anything. The mad are unable to sleep, and the sick too. The night is bloody with crime and madness’ — he recalled a line from some poem. Gurdweill lay down again with a resolute air, as if he had resigned himself to his fate. But no sooner had he given up all hope of sleep than his tension relaxed, and overcome with weariness he fell asleep within a couple of minutes.

In the morning Thea sat up in bed.

‘Rabbit, rabbit, aren’t we going to get any coffee today?’ There was a drowsy, contented note in her voice, as after a sound night’s sleep.