Titian's "well done" no longer sounded cheerfully in his ears, the "go, go," of the venal woman echoed all the more loudly.
De Soto was waiting for him, to repeat to him the high praise he had heard bestowed upon his art-test at Titian's; but Ulrich heard nothing, for he gave the secretary no time to speak, and the latter could only echo the beautiful Claudia's "go, go!" and then smooth the way for his flight.
When the morning of Ash-Wednesday dawned cool and misty, Venice lay behind the young artist.

Unpursued, but without finding rest or satisfaction, he went to Parma, Bologna, Pisa, Florence.
Grimani's death burdened his conscience but lightly.

Duelling was a battle in miniature, to kill one's foe no crime, but a victory.

Far different anxieties tortured him.
Venice, whither the "word" had led him, from which he had hoped and expected everything, was lost to him, and with it Titian's favor and Cagliari's instruction.
He began to doubt himself, his future, the sublime word and its magic spell.

The greater the works which the traveller's eyes beheld, the more insignificant he felt, the more pitiful his own powers, his own skill appeared.
"Draw, draw!" advised every master to whom he applied, as soon as he had seen his work.