face with the process-paper.

It was an unhealthy life that we then led: leaping by day and reading by
night. I sat at midnight half-way through Schweigaard's Process,
alternately putting my head out of the window and into the washhand
basin, and, between whiles, rushing like a whirlwind through the
withered leaves of the musty volume.

However, even the most violent wind must eventually fall; and, indeed,
this was my heartfelt wish. But the juridical momentum was strong
within me. I sat stiffly, peering and reading for the eleventh time:
'One might thus certainly assume'--'One--might--thus--certainly,'--
combine the useful with the agreeable--and lean back--a little in the
chair. I can read just as well; the lamp doesn't bother me in the least.
'One--might--thus--'

But all manner of non-juridical images rose up from the book, entwined
themselves about the lamp, and threatened to completely overshadow my
clear legal brain. I could yet dimly see the white paper. 'One--might--
thus--'. The rest disappeared in a myriad of small dark characters that
flowed down the closely-printed pages; in dull despair my eyes followed
the stream, and then I saw, towards the bottom of the right-hand page, a
face.

It was a monkey that was drawn on the margin. It was excellently drawn,
I thought, the brown colouring of the face being especially remarkable.
I am ashamed to say that my interest in this work of art proved stronger
than Schweigaard himself. I roused myself a little, and leant forward
in order to see better.