He said to himself, as he had said every day for many long months, that this was the secret of the difference he felt between his life and the life of his companions--such companions as he had, between his thoughts and their thoughts, between his ways and their ways.

Of late the fancy had gained a stronger hold on his imagination, excited by solitude and an undue consumption of the midnight oil, and as he turned his face to the evening light, an observer, had there been one, might have felt half inclined to agree with him.

His face was pale, and the high aquiline nose looked drawn.

Moreover, the tangled hair and beard contrasted strangely with his broad, spotless collar, and his dressing-gown of sober black.

The long habit of neatness in dress survived any small vanity of personal looks.
He rose, and throwing the pen impatiently on the table, went to the little window and looked out.