He wasn't
capable of murder. He was certain of that. And, remembering suddenly the
plain speeches of Mr. Jones, he would think: "I suppose I am too tame
for that"--quite unaware that he had murdered the poor woman morally
years ago. He was too unintelligent to have the notion of such a crime.
Her bodily presence was bitterly offensive, because of its contrast with
a very different feminine image. And it was no use getting rid of her.
She was a habit of years, and there would be nothing to put in her
place. At any rate, he could talk to that idiot half the night if he
chose.
That night he had been vapouring before her as to his intention to face
his two guests and, instead of that inspiration he needed, had merely
received the usual warning: "Be careful, Wilhelm." He did not want to be
told to be careful by an imbecile female. What he needed was a pair of
woman's arms which, flung round his neck, would brace him up for the
encounter. Inspire him, he called it to himself.
He lay awake a long time; and his slumbers, when they came, were
unsatisfactory and short. The morning light had no joy for his eyes.
He listened dismally to the movements in the house. The Chinamen were
unlocking and flinging wide the doors of the public rooms which opened
on the veranda. Horrors! Another poisoned day to get through somehow!
The recollection of his resolve made him feel actually sick for a
moment.
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