'Why after lunch ?' he asked himself.

Could it be that only when he was absolutely rested, before he had had any sort of fatigue, that the deceptive improvement would show itself?
He felt a wondering humiliation at his own narrow grief.
However, this was the hour that it recurred; he didn't know why.

He had tried all sorts of physical cures--for there is no disguising the fact that such suffering is physical, and so why should the cure not be, also?
He had tried wine, no wine, exercise, distraction, everything--and especially a constant change of scene.

This last was the worst of all.

He felt so exiled in Sicily, and in Spain--so terribly far away--it was unbearable.