He wasn't going to bed like a potman; he was going to sit up like a poet and write.

That's what he was going to do.

This was his study.
With shaking hands he lit the lamp on his study table; the wick sputtered, and the light in his head jigged horribly with the jigging of the flame.

It was as if he was being stabbed with little knives of light.
He plunged his head into a basin of cold water, threw open his window and leaned out into the pure regenerating night.

Spinks sat down on a chair and watched him, his fresh, handsome face clouded with anxiety.
He adored Rickman sober; but for Rickman drunk he had a curious yearning affection.