In that rugged composition, confused, dark, harsh, a furrow had been driven deep, a little seed planted, a little seed at first weak, forgotten, lost in the lower dark places of his character.
But as the intellect moved slower, its functions growing numb, the idea of self dwindled.

Annixter no longer considered himself; no longer considered the notion of marriage from the point of view of his own comfort, his own wishes, his own advantage.

He realised that in his newfound desire to make her happy, he was sincere.

There was something in that idea, after all.

To make some one happy--how about that now?
It was worth thinking of.
Far away, low down in the east, a dim belt, a grey light began to whiten over the horizon.