He had killed long nights, the very thought of which made him shudder, by reading books of which he never took in a word.

He had stood up in the dark, unmanned, and cursed himself and her and life.

He had denounced her to himself and once to her as a flapper, a fool-girl, an empty-minded frivolous thing encased in a body as beautiful as spring.

He had thrown himself on his knees and wept like a young boy who had been hurt to the very quick by a great injustice.

He had faced himself up, and with the sort of fear that comes to men in moments of physical danger, recognized madness in his eyes.