A second knock came at the door. He started with a jolt.
'Here is your shaving-water,' said Beatrice in cold tones. 'It's half
past nine.' 'All right,' said Siegmund, rising from the bed, bewildered.
'And what time shall you expect dinner?' asked Beatrice. She was still
contemptuous.
'Any time. I'm not going out,' he answered.
He was surprised to hear the ordinary cool tone of his own voice, for he
was shuddering uncontrollably, and was almost sobbing. In a shaking,
bewildered, disordered condition he set about fulfilling his purpose. He
was hardly conscious of anything he did; try as he would, he could not
keep his hands steady in the violent spasms of shuddering, nor could he
call his mind to think. He was one shuddering turmoil. Yet he performed
his purpose methodically and exactly. In every particular he was
thorough, as if he were the servant of some stern will. It was a
mesmeric performance, in which the agent trembled with
convulsive sickness.