Now, however, all at once, at the threat of losing her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled.

He would never have thought the tie so close a one.

But he was now almost fifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched away from him, the last woman that he could love and desire, one too who was the more desirable, as she was the incarnation of youth from which he must ever be severed, should he indeed lose her.

Passionate desire, mingled with rage, flared up within him at the thought that someone should have come to take her from him.
One night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyrdom.

In order that he might not rouse the house he buried his face in his pillow so as to stifle his sobs.