What now could he do for his boy except die?
What else, what other benefit, did his son require of him but to die; to die so that his means of dissipation might be unbounded?
He let go the unresisting hand which he held, and, as the young man crept out of the room, he turned his face to the wall.

He turned his face to the wall and held bitter commune with his own heart.

To what had he brought himself?
To what had he brought his son?
Oh, how happy would it have been for him could he have remained all his days a working stone-mason in Barchester! How happy could he have died as such, years ago! Such tears as those which wet that pillow are the bitterest which human eyes can shed.
But while they were dropping, the memoir of his life was in quick course of preparation.

It was, indeed, nearly completed, with considerable detail.

He had lingered on four days longer than might have been expected, and the author had thus had more than usual time for the work.