How write, or even how phrase his having merely breathed in his ruffian's hearing the wish that he might hear of her husband's defeat! And with what object?
Here, too, a woman might, years hence, if not forgive, bend her head resignedly over the man's vile nature, supposing strong passion his motive.

But the name for the actual motive?
It would not bear writing, or any phrasing round it.

An unsceptred despot bidden take a fair woman's eyes into his breast, saw and shrank.

And now the eyes were Carinthia's: he saw a savage bridegroom, and a black ladder-climber, and the sweetest of pardoning brides, and the devil in him still insatiate for revenge upon her who held him to his word.
He wrote, read, tore the page, trimmed the lamp, and wrote again.

He remembered Gower Woodseer's having warned him he would finish his career a monk.