The Malcontents by C.P. Snow

That night Stephen's sleep was broken. Oblivion, and then full bleak lucid wakefulness. It was dead quiet in the precinct, not even the distant surge of traffic, the only sounds the chime of the clock, and once or twice the windows rattling in a stir of wind.

He lay on his back, staring into the black room. He couldn't deny his thoughts. He had to let them follow their course, as though he could still delay, as though he were unaware of his resolve, or could renege on one already made. At moments he had waves of relief, the same cowardly relief he had felt in Mark's drawing-room. He had done nothing yet. Time, a few hours, perhaps a day or two, lay ahead. At moments there still seemed a choice. Hankerings, retreats, pretexts, feelings of free will, lasted long after decisions and alongside them. But he had none of the comforts of confusion. Whatever he did, would be wrong. The consequences were clear and lucid, stamped like lines of figures on the darkness. He went to sleep again, and then woke into the same unrelieved lucidity.