He often did, because, when he prayed or cried aloud, his father might awake and hear him; and none knew his great sorrow, and none knew his grief, but he himself, and he buried them deep in his heart.
He turned up the brim of his great hat and looked at the moon, but most at the leaves of the prickly pear that grew just before him.

They glinted, and glinted, and glinted, just like his own heart--cold, so hard, and very wicked.

His physical heart had pain also; it seemed full of little bits of glass, that hurt.

He had sat there for half an hour, and he dared not go back to the close house.
He felt horribly lonely.

There was not one thing so wicked as he in all the world, and he knew it.