Terrified at the vividness of these memories he pressed his arms to his breast, and strove to withdraw himself from his senses and his memory, into the very centre of his being.

He gasped, with parted lips, unable to banish that image from his inner vision.

And others flashed through his mind, leaving his unyielding will unconquered, but causing it to tremble like a tightly drawn rope.

Now it was the idea that only Jeanne really loved him, that only Jeanne suffered through his suffering.

Now it was her voice, complaining that her love was not returned, her voice asking for love, in the tones of a little song by Saint-Saens, so sweet, so sad, and familiar to them both, and concerning which he had once said to her at Villa Diedo that he could never refuse anything to one who prayed thus.