The last had
been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as
he remembered those five nights. But that time
it had not come on so suddenly; he had never
known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands
blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the
first time since he had been an atheist; praying
to anything--to nothing--to everything.
"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow!
I will bear anything to-morrow--only not to-night!"
He stood still for a moment, with both hands
up to his temples; then he took up the file once
more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar.
His shirt-sleeve was bitten to rags; there was
blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed,
and filed, and filed----
. . . . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was
utterly worn out with the restless misery of the
night and slept for a little while quietly; then he
began to dream.
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