Excerpt from Restless Human Hearts, Vol. 3 of 3: A Novel
He had lost it for the time. Violent passion had acted upon him like a fever; when the tongue refuses to distinguish between one flavour and another, and even tea, which one rushes to as a grateful refreshment, is unrecognisable. It might as well be ditch-water. The turbot might as well have been a ropy turnip, for aught he could tell. He did not eat, he gulped it down in large pieces; he did not drink, his throat burnt up the liquor as it ran down, just as the dry sands of the deserts burn up the rivers that try to run over them. He stormed at the papers. He turned over the Times, the Daily News, the Standard, the Telegraph, the Globe, the Pall Mall, mechanically. His eyes ached - they glared - they smarted as if he had been walking on the Parade at Brighton in a high wind, and got them stuffed full of sand in the orthodox seaside way. The evening was warm -he was stifling. His dress, light as it was, clung to him. Outraging all usages, he tore his shirt open, undid his collar, and stormed out of the place into the open air. Much good it did him.
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