His money was
running short, and at last, when evening came on the third day, and
he was faint with fatigue, his heart sank. He was ill, too, and
sickness began to cloud his brain. As the power of internal
resistance diminishes, the circumstance of the external world presses
on us like the air upon an exhausted glass ball, and finally crushes
us. It saddened him, too, to think, as it has saddened thousands
before him, that the fight which he fought, and the death which,
perhaps, was in front of him, were so mean. Ophelia dies; Juliet
dies, and we fancy that their fate, although terrible, is more
enviable than that of a pauper who drops undramatically on London
stones. He came to his lodging at the close of the third day, wet,
tired, hungry, and with a headache. There was nobody to suggest
anything to him or offer him anything. He went to bed, and a
thousand images, uncontrolled, rushed backwards and forwards before
him. He became excited, so that he could not rest, and after walking
about his room till nearly daylight, turned into bed again. When
morning had fairly arrived he tried to rise, but he was beaten. He
lay still till about eleven, and then the woman who kept the lodging-
house appeared and asked him if he was going to stay all day where he
was.
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