Twelve o'clock
As Dysart found himself almost the last man in the room , he too rose , reluctantly , as though unwilling to give himself up to the solitary musings that he knew lay before him ; the self-upbraidings , the vague remorse , the terrible dread lest he had been too severe , that he knows will be his all through the silent darkness . For what have sleep and he to do with each other to-night ? He bade his host good-night and , with a pretense of going upstairs , turned aside into the deserted library , and , choosing a book , flung himself into a chair , determined , if possible , to read his brain into a state of coma . * * * * * Twelve o'clock has struck , slowly , painfully , as if the old timekeeper is sleepy , too , and is nodding over his work . And now one -- as slowly , truly , but with the startling brevity that prevents one 's dwelling on its drowsy note . Dysart , with a tired groan , flings down his book , and , rising to his feet , stretches his arms above his head in an utter abandonment to sleepless fatigue that is even more mental than bodily . Once the subject of that book had been of an enthralling interest to him .