If anything, he preferred him in that state.

It seemed to bring him nearer to him.

Spinks had never been drunk in his life, but that was his feeling.
Rickman laid his arms upon the window sill and his head upon his arms.
"'The blessed damozel leaned out,'" he said (the idea in his mind being that _he_ was a blessed damozel).
"'From the gold bar of heaven.'" ("Never knew they had 'em up there," murmured Spinks.) "'Her eyes were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at even'-- Oh--my--God!" A great sigh shook him, and went shuddering into the night like the passing of a lost soul.

He got up and staggered to the table, and grasped it by the edge, nearly upsetting the lamp.

The flare in his brain had died down as the lamp burnt steadily.