He was seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish.

Yes, great.

Perhaps the greatest anguish of a life.

His arms on the table, his head on his arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he wished to die.

The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how?
So rudely, so cruelly, so heartlessly broken! He could have borne it if there had been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.
'Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!' you say, some one who has never felt keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a passion unrequited.