Ten years of it--ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure.
The ten years from forty to fifty--the best ten years of his life!
And if one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams,
assimilation, preparation--then call it half a man's life-time: half
a man's life-time thrown away!

And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled
that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten
minutes past eight--only ten minutes had been consumed in that
stormy rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty
minutes for Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case
that, in proportion as he had grown to shrink from human company, he
dreaded more and more to be alone. ... But why the devil was he
waiting for Ascham? Why didn't he cut the knot himself? Since he was
so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did he have to call
in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living?

He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was
a small slim ivory toy--just the instrument for a tired sufferer to
give himself a "hypodermic" with. Granice raised it slowly in one
hand, while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back
of his head, between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to
place the muzzle: he had once got a young surgeon to show him. And
as he found the spot, and lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable
phenomenon occurred. The hand that held the weapon began to shake,
the tremor communicated itself to his arm, his heart gave a wild
leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to his throat, he smelt
the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet through his
skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran down
his quivering face...