Chapter 18
The day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, a indifferent to life itself. The sciousness of being hunted, sracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailors face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart.
But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengea of the night ahe hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the on world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor th……（内容加载失败！）
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