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"It is because I am very ill," he decided grimly at last, "I have

been worrying and fretting myself, and I don't know what I am

doing.... Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this

time I have been worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall

not worry.... But what if I don't get well at all? Good God, how

sick I am of it all!"

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some

distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A

new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over

him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical,

repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant

feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him--he

loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone

had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or

bitten him....