Ovid's knowledge of his own temperament told him that sleep was not to be hoped for, that night.

But the way to bed was the way to rest notwithstanding, by getting rid of his clothes.
With the sunrise he rose and went out.
He took his letter with him, and dropped it into the box in his friend's door.

The sooner he committed himself to the new course that he had taken, the more certain he might feel of not renewing the miserable and useless indecision of the past night.

"Thank God, that's done!" he said to himself, as he heard the letter fall into the box, and left the house.
After walking in the Park until he was weary, he sat down by the ornamental lake, and watched the waterfowl enjoying their happy lives.
Wherever he went, whatever he did, Carmina was always with him.

He had seen thousands of girls, whose personal attractions were far more remarkable--and some few among them whose manner was perhaps equally winning.