The night was far too warm for February. Past midnight, front door open, and a fan blowing a futile breeze through the place, its rough hum imbuing the air with a long-lacking envelopment. It was too warm to sleep. At least, too warm to sleep in February.
Silence has a way of invading the mind in just the same way as an incessant tapping; so the fan served some purpose. Eyes drooping, but sleep still elusive, I opened a small volume of Stevenson. For some reason, the mood was perfect for the murder of an old miser—something of the urgency of Markheim1 lazily livened the slow pace of a tired night. Mind whirling, I finally slept.