After a pretence of dinner, he seated himself as if to read; glancing at him a few minutes later, Monica found that he was fast asleep.
She could not bear to gaze at him, yet her eyes turned thither again and again.

His face was repulsive to her; the deep furrows, the red eyelids, the mottled skin moved her to loathing.

And yet she pitied him.

His frantic exultation was the cruelest irony.

What would he do?
What would become of him?
She turned away, and presently left the room, for the sound of his uneasy breathing made her suffer too much.
When he woke up, he came in search of her, and laughed over his involuntary nap.
'Well, now, you will go and see your sister to-morrow morning.' 'In the afternoon, I think.' 'Why?
Don't let us have any procrastination.