He was well aware of the proportions of things; he had no despair of the Idea, nor would he despair should the Idea etherealize and fly away.

Neither had he, for his personal honour, any morbid desires toward White Clam Shell or Finnigan's cat.

His luck had been a good deal better than it might have been; he recognized that as fully as any sensible young man could, and as for the Great Chance, and the queer grip it had on him, he would have argued that too if anyone had approached him curiously about it.

There I think we might doubt his conclusions.

There is nothing subtler, more elusive to trace than the intercurrents of the emotions.