He had read the story at one stretch.
He had sat there for hours reading, for hours rapt in his Vision.

At last material darkness began to gather round him, and he awoke with a start to realization that he had been sitting there most of the day.
With a sigh he replaced his book in the hole, which he cunningly masked with a lump of hard clay, and, feeling stiff and cold, ran, childlike, homeward.

In the silence of the night he took out his cornelian heart and fondled it.

The day had been curiously like, yet utterly unlike, the day on which she had taken it from her neck.

In a dim fashion he knew that the two days were of infinite significance in his life and were complementary.