How had it arisen?
Was it a physical illness?
Was it madness in truth, or the beginning of it?
Why had it not taken him four months ago, when he met this girl at the Baxendales'?
But he remembered that even then she had attracted him strangely; he had quitted the others to talk to her.

He must have been prepared to conceive this frantic passion on coming together with her again.
Love alone, so felt and so frustrated, would have been bad enough; it was the added pang of jealousy that made it a fierce agony.

It was well that the man she had chosen was not within his reach; his mood was that of a murderer.

The very heat and vigour of his physical frame, the native violence of his temper, disposed him to brute fury, if an instinct such as this once became acute; and the imaginative energy which lurked in him, a sort of undeveloped genius, was another source of suffering beyond that which ordinary men endure.

He was a fine creature in these hours, colossal, tragic; it needed this experience to bring out all there was of great and exceptional in his character.