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But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to

take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather,

forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing,

however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water

on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe.

His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the

blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken

saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the bucket.

When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and

spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where

there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped

it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the

kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the

axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only the wood

was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his

coat.