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same time, he had attacks of delirium,--sinking on the first seat he
came to; sometimes drowsy, sometimes starting up. He came and went,
looked at the ceiling, examined the coronets, studied vaguely the
hieroglyphics of the emblazonment, felt the velvet of the walls, moved
the chairs, turned over the parchments, read the names, spelt out the
titles, Buxton, Homble, Grundraith, Hunkerville, Clancharlie; compared
the wax, the impression, felt the twist of silk appended to the royal
privy seal, approached the window, listened to the splash of the
fountain, contemplated the statues, counted, with the patience of a
somnambulist, the columns of marble, and said,--
"
It is real."
Then he touched his satin clothes, and asked himself,--
"Is it I? Yes."
He was torn by an inward tempest.
In this whirlwind, did he feel faintness and fatigue? Did he drink, eat,
sleep? If he did so, he was unconscious of the fact. In certain violent
situations instinct satisfies itself, according to its requirements,
unconsciously. Besides, his thoughts were less thoughts than mists. At
the moment that the black flame of an irruption disgorges itself from
depths full of boiling lava, has the crater any consciousness of the
flocks which crop the grass at the foot of the mountain?
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