He carefully tore off still more, making a clean strip of the paper where Maria had made a ragged one.

When he had finished, it looked as if the paper had in reality dropped off because of carelessness in putting on.

He gathered up the pieces of paper and stood looking about the room.
There is something about an empty room, empty except of memories, but containing nothing besides, no materialities, no certainties as to the future, which is intimidating to one who stops and thinks.

Harry Edgham was not, generally speaking, of the sort who stop to think; but now he did.

The look of youth faded from his face.