Отруєний пояс

           Ifthesemenofsciencecouldbesotruetotheirlife’sworktotheveryend,whyshouldnotI,inmyhumbleway,beasconstant?NohumaneyemighteverrestuponwhatIhaddone.Butthelongnighthadtobepassedsomehow,andformeatleast,sleepseemedtobeoutofthequestion.Mynoteswouldhelptopassthewearyhoursandtooccupymythoughts.ThusitisthatnowIhavebeforemethenotebookwithitsscribbledpages,writtenconfusedlyuponmykneeinthedim,waninglightofouroneelectrictorch.HadItheliterarytouch,theymighthavebeenworthyoftheoccasion.Asitis,theymaystillservetobringtoothermindsthelong-drawnemotionsandtremorsofthatawfulnight.