He had kissed a dozen times the spot where her lips had pressed it.

Blind fool! Deeper and deeper; he knew that he never could go back to that safe ledge of the heart-free.

Time could not change his heart, not if given the thousand years of the wandering Jew.
Bah! He would walk round the fountain and cool his crazy pulse.

He was Irish, Irish to the core.

Would any one, save an Irishman, give way, day after day, to those insane maunderings?
His mood was savage; he was at odds with the world, and most of all, with himself.