He scarcely thought of anything, but he would not think of that.

He lay and suffered like a sulking dog.
He had hurt himself most; and he was the more damaged because he would never say a word to her, or express his sorrow.

He tried to wriggle out of it.

"It was her own fault," he said to himself.

Nothing, however, could prevent his inner consciousness inflicting on him the punishment which ate into his spirit like rust, and which he could only alleviate by drinking.
He felt as if he had not the initiative to get up, or to say a word, or to move, but could only lie like a log.