In his sensitive reticence, in his shrinking pride, he had put a smiling face upon it before the world.

He had watched her marry Frederick Massingbird, and had "made no sign." Deep, deep in his heart, fifty fathom deep, had he pressed down his misery, passing his days in what may be called a false atmosphere--showing a false side to his friends.
It seemed false to Lionel, the appearing what he was not.

He was his true self at night only, when he could turn, and toss, and groan out his trouble at will.

But, when illness attacked him, and he had no strength of body to throw off his pain of mind, then he found how completely the blow had shattered him.

It seemed to Lionel, in his sane moments, in the intervals of his delirium, that it would be far happier to die, than to wake up again to renewed life, to bear about within him that ever-present sorrow.