He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite
relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got
into his cab. He lolled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Never in
his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away
the restraint which was his second nature. He had a stripped and
naked feeling, as if all virtue had gone out of him--life meaningless,
mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The
scene he had passed through had gone from him already, what was before
him would not materialise, he could catch on to nothing; and he felt
frightened, as if he had been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as
if with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. 'I'm not
fit for it,' he thought; 'I mustn't--I'm not fit for it.' The cab sped
on, and in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had
no significance. 'I feel very queer,' he thought; 'I'll take a Turkish
bath.--I've been very near to something. It won't do.' The cab whirred
its way back over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, along the Park.
"To the Hammam," said Soames.
Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting!
Crossing into the hot room he met George Forsyte coming out, red and
glistening.
"Hallo!" said George; "what are you training for? You've not got much
superfluous."
Buffoon! Soames passed him with his sideway smile. Lying back, rubbing
his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he thought: 'Let
them laugh! I won't feel anything! I can't stand violence! It's not good
for me!'