He sat down by her in silence, looking away from her at the fire, swearing to himself that he would not become a villain, and yet wishing, almost wishing, that he had the courage to throw his honor overboard.

At last, half turning round toward her, he took her hand, or rather took her arm by the wrist till he could possess himself of her hand.

As he did so he touched her hair and her cheek, and she let her hand drop till it rested in his.
"Julia," he said, "what can I do to comfort you ?" She did not answer him, but looked away from him as she sat, across the table into vacancy.
"Julia," he said again, "is there anything that will comfort you ?" But still she did not answer him.
He understood it all as well as the reader will understand it.

He knew how it was with her, and was aware that he was at that instant false almost equally to her and to Florence.

He knew that the question he had asked was one to which there could be made a true and satisfactory answer, but that his safety lay in the fact that that answer was all but impossible for her to give.