At the head of the paper was inscribed 'Chapter III.,' but that was all.
And now the sky was dusking over; darkness would soon fall.
He looked something older than his years, which were two-and-thirty; on his face was the pallor of mental suffering.

Often he fell into a fit of absence, and gazed at vacancy with wide, miserable eyes.

Returning to consciousness, he fidgeted nervously on his chair, dipped his pen for the hundredth time, bent forward in feverish determination to work.
Useless; he scarcely knew what he wished to put into words, and his brain refused to construct the simplest sentence.
The colours faded from the sky, and night came quickly.

Reardon threw his arms upon the desk, let his head fall forward, and remained so, as if asleep.
Presently the door opened, and a young, clear voice made inquiry: 'Don't you want the lamp, Edwin ?' The man roused himself, turned his chair a little, and looked towards the open door.
'Come here, Amy.' His wife approached.

It was not quite dark in the room, for a glimmer came from the opposite houses.
'What's the matter?
Can't you do anything ?' 'I haven't written a word to-day.