The pen which he had taken shook in his hand.
He was amazed to find his resignation fled, but it was gone beyond his recall.

In a few white-hot words, he bade adieu, dubbing desperation by the name of love, and calling his wrath forgiveness; then he cast but one look of leave-taking on the place that had been his for so long and was now to be his no longer; and hurried forth--love's prisoner--or pride's.
He took that private passage which he had trodden so often in less momentous hours.

The porter let him out; and the bountiful, cold air of the night and the pure glory of the stars received him on the threshold.
He looked round him, breathing deep of earth's plain fragrance; he looked up into the great array of heaven, and was quieted.

His little turgid life dwindled to its true proportions; and he saw himself (that great flame-hearted martyr!) stand like a speck under the cool cupola of the night.

Thus he felt his careless injuries already soothed; the live air of out-of-doors, the quiet of the world, as if by their silent music, sobering and dwarfing his emotions.
'Well, I forgive her,' he said.