Gathering my wits with an effort, I said aloud: "Why don't they wash his hands ?" My neighbor on the right, the gnome in the mustard vest, seems to hear me, and shakes his head.
My eyes go back to the other side, and for hours I devote myself to watching in obstinate detail, with wide-open eyes, the water-swollen man whom I saw floating vaguely in the night like a balloon.

By night he was whitish.

By day he is yellow, and his big eyes are glutted with yellow.

He gurgles, makes noises of subterranean water, and mingles sighs with words and morsels of words.

Fits of coughing tan his ochreous face.
His spittoon is always full.