It is obvious that his heart, where his wasted sulphurate hand is placed, beats too hard and presses his spongy lungs and the tumor of water which distends him.

He lives in the settled notion of emptying his inexhaustible body.

He is constantly examining his bed-bottle, and I see his face in that yellow reflection.
All day I watched the torture and punishment of that body.

His cap and tunic, no longer in the least like him, hang from a nail.
Once, when he lay engulfed and choking, he pointed to the negro, perpetually oscillating, and said: "He wanted to kill himself because he was homesick." The doctor has said to me--to _me_: "You're going on nicely." I wanted to ask him to talk to me about myself, but there was no time to ask him! Towards evening my yellow-vested neighbor, emerging from his meditations and continuing to shake his head, answers my questions of the morning: "They can't wash his hands--it's embedded." A little later that day I became restless.

I lifted my arm--it was clothed in white linen.