it--and of Agatha and my poor old mother! I wish that
I were dead!

Yes, this is the other turn of the screw. And this is
also what she meant, no doubt, when she said that I had
not realized yet the power she has over me. I look
back at my account of my conversation with her, and I
see how she declared that with a slight exertion of her
will her subject would be conscious, and with a
stronger one unconscious. Last night I was
unconscious. I could have sworn that I slept soundly
in my bed without so much as a dream. And yet those
stains tell me that I dressed, made my way out,
attempted to open the bank windows, and returned. Was
I observed? Is it possible that some one saw me do it
and followed me home? Ah, what a hell my life has
become! I have no peace, no rest. But my patience is
nearing its end.

10 P. M. I have cleaned my coat with turpentine. I do
not think that any one could have seen me. It was with
my screw-driver that I made the marks. I found it all
crusted with paint, and I have cleaned it. My head
aches as if it would burst, and I have taken five
grains of antipyrine. If it were not for Agatha, I
should have taken fifty and had an end of it.

May 3. Three quiet days. This hell fiend is like a
cat with a mouse. She lets me loose only to pounce
upon me again. I am never so frightened as when every