He had left the wedding breakfast because he had reached the limit of his endurance.
Words, stinging as whips, burned like hot coals in his mouth, and he felt that he could not restrain them much longer.

Hastening to his hotel, he locked himself in his rooms, and passed the night in a frenzy of passion.

The very remembrance of the bridegroom's confident transport put mur-der in his heart--murder which he could only practice by his wishes, impotent to compass their desires.
"I wish the fellow shot! I wish him hanged! I would kill him twenty times in twenty different ways! And Dora! Dora! Dora! What did she see in him?
What could she see?
Love her?
He knows nothing of love--such love as tortures me." Backwards and forwards he paced the floor to such imprecations and ejaculations as welled up from the whirlpool of rage in his heart, hour following hour, till in the blackness of his misery he could no longer speak.

His brain had become stupefied by the iteration of inevitable loss, and so refused any longer to voice a woe beyond remedy.

Then he stood still and called will and reason to council him.
"This way madness lies," he thought.