His privation had two faces, and the face it had turned to him on the occasion of his last attempt to cultivate that friendship was the one he could look at least.

This was the privation he inflicted; the other was the privation he bore.

The conditions she never phrased he used to murmur to himself in solitude: "One more, one more--only just one." Certainly he was going down; he often felt it when he caught himself, over his work, staring at vacancy and giving voice to that inanity.

There was proof enough besides in his being so weak and so ill.

His irritation took the form of melancholy, and his melancholy that of the conviction that his health had quite failed.