The
old man's face, too, had nothing distinctive in it. The only thing
certainly predicable of him was, that nothing could be predicated of
him. He was neither selfish nor generous; neither a liar nor
truthful; neither believed anything, nor disbelieved anything; was
neither good nor bad; had no hope hereafter, nor any doubt.
"Who are you?" said Zachariah.
"Well, that ain't easy to say. I does odd jobs here as the nurses
don't do, and I gets a little extra ration."
"How long have I been here?"
"About a fortnight."
Zachariah was too weak to say anything more, and fell asleep again.
Next day he was better, and he then thought of his wife; he thought
of Caillaud, the Major, and Pauline; but he had no power to reflect
connectedly. He was in that miserable condition in which objects
present themselves in a tumbling crowd, one following the other with
inconceivable rapidity, the brain possessing no power to disentangle
the chaos. He could not detach the condition of his wife, for
example, and determine what ought to be done; he could not even bring
himself to decide if it would be best to let her know where he was.
No sooner did he try to turn his attention to her, even for a moment,
than the Major came before him, and then his other friends, and then
the workhouse and the dread of death there.
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