I recall the impulse that awakened in me to
preserve those words in writing, exactly as they were spoken,
while the time was my own, and while my memory vividly retained
them. All this I remember plainly: there is no confusion in my
head yet. The coming in here from the bedroom, with my pen and
ink and paper, before sunrise--the sitting down at the widely-
opened window to get all the air I could to cool me--the ceaseless
writing, faster and faster, hotter and hotter, driving on more and
more wakefully, all through the dreadful interval before the house
was astir again--how clearly I recall it, from the beginning by
candle-light, to the end on the page before this, in the sunshine
of the new day!
Why do I sit here still? Why do I weary my hot eyes and my burning
head by writing more? Why not lie down and rest myself, and try to
quench the fever that consumes me, in sleep?
I dare not attempt it. A fear beyond all other fears has got
possession of me. I am afraid of this heat that parches my skin.
I am afraid of the creeping and throbbing that I feel in my head.
If I lie down now, how do I know that I may have the sense and the
strength to rise again?
Oh, the rain, the rain--the cruel rain that chilled me last night!
Nine o'clock.
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