Keen curiosity as to what might happen between now and midnight was keeping me going.
He could hardly drag himself into the house.

But a bath, and some food that I found in the larder restored him considerably.
He helped me carry out the table.

He chose a book of Schiller's poems to take with him, but did not read it; he sat with his elbows on the table and his back toward the front door, resting his chin gloomily on both fists.

He remained in that attitude all afternoon, and for all I know slept part of the time.
Between him and the window of the room I sat in were some shrubs that obscured the view considerably.

I could see Scharnhoff through them easily enough, but I don't think he could see me, and certainly no one could have seen me from the road.