The cast of thought was upon it; of thought eager and self-tormenting; the mark of a spirit ever straining after something unattainable.

At moments when he found satisfaction in reading the legend on some monument his eyes grew placid and his beetling brows smoothed themselves; but the haunter within would not be forgotten, and, as if at a sudden recollection, he dropped his eyes in a troubled way, and moved onwards brooding.

In those brief intervals of peace his countenance expressed an absorbing reverence, a profound humility.

The same was evident in his bearing; he walked as softly as possible and avoided treading upon a sculptured name.
When he passed out into the sunny street, he stood for an instant with a hand veiling his eyes, as if the sudden light were too strong.

Then he looked hither and thither with absent gaze, and at length bent his steps in the direction of Westminster Bridge.