He was not of those who can quit the scene of their fruitless misery and find forgetfulness at a distance.

Every searing stroke drove him more desperately in pursuit of his end.

He was further from abandoning it, now that he knew another stood in his way, than he would have been if Emily had merely rejected him.

He would not yield her to another man; he swore to himself that he would not, let it cost him and her what it might.
He had seen her again, with his glass, from the windows of the mill, had scarcely moved his eyes from her for an hour.

A hope came to him that she might by chance walk at evening on the Heath, but he was disappointed; Emily, indeed, had long shunned walks in that direction.
He had no other means of meeting her, yet he anguished for a moment's glimpse of her face.
To-day he knew a cruel assuagement of his torture.