Since he had broken off in the middle of a sentence, it was easy for him to continue.

He took up the pen, wrote a phrase or two, then paused.
"To what purpose ?" he demanded of himself, as if in a cruel flash of inner illumination.

"Even if I knew that what I am writing, what I am going to write, would be considered incomparably fine; even if I could really succeed in annihilating Voltaire, and in making my renown greater than his--would I not gladly commit these papers to the flames could I but have Marcolina in my arms?
For that boon, should I not be willing to vow never to set foot in Venice again, even though the Venetians should wish to escort me back to the city in triumph ?" "Venice!".....

He breathed the word once more.

Its splendor captivated his imagination, and in a moment its old power over him had been restored.