He pocketed it unopened and continued his way.
In the darkness of his own room he sat down, the devil's own clutch on his shrinking nerves, a deathly desire tearing at his very vitals, and every vein a tiny trail of fire run riot.

He had been too long without it, too long to endure the craving aroused by that gay draught from Quarrier's loving-cup.
The awakened fury of his desire appalled him, and for a while that occupied him, enabling him to endure.

But fear and dismay soon passed in the purely physical distress; he walked the floor, haggard, the sweat starting on his face; he lay with clenched hands, stiffened out across the bed, deafened by the riotous clamour of his pulses, conscious that he was holding out, unconscious how long he could hold out.
Crisis after crisis swept him; sometimes he found his feet and moved blindly about the room.
Strange periods of calm intervened; sensation seemed deadened; and he stood as a man who listens, scarcely daring to breathe lest the enemy awake and seize him.
He turned on the light, later, to look for his pipe, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

It was a sick man who stared back at him out of hollow eyes, and the physical revulsion shocked him into something resembling self-command.
"Damn you!" he said fiercely, setting his teeth and staring back at his reflected face, "I'll kill you yet before I've finished with you!" Then he filled his pipe, and opening his bedroom window, sat down, resting his arm on the sill.

A splendid moon silvered the sea; through the intense stillness he heard the surf, magnificently dissonant among the reefs, and he listened, fascinated, loathing the tides as he feared and loathed the inexorable tides that surged and ebbed with his accursed desire.
Once he said to himself, weakly--for he was deadly tired--"What am I making the fight for, anyway ?" And "Who are you making the fight for ?" echoed his heavy pulses.
He had asked that question and received that answer before.