Stanistreet's hand was cold as ice.

He lowered himself into his chair, and lit a pipe in token of reconciliation.
He was magnanimous.

It was he who had done the wrong, and it was he who had pardoned.

He had always been sorry for that poor devil, Tyson.
Tyson was aware of this feeling, and he generally resented it; but at times like the present it gave him a curious sense of moral support.
The two men sat and smoked in a silence which Tyson, as usual, was the first to break.
"I wouldn't like to swear," said he, "that I don't go abroad again before long.

It's my only chance.