A sadder face the moon did not shine upon.
'That's a fine play, Faustus--Marlowe,' he said.

Some of the lines he had read were booming funereally in his ear like a far-off bell.

'I wonder whether Marlowe had run a wild course, like some of us here--myself--and could not retrieve.

That honest little mountebank, Puddock, does not understand a word of it.

I wish I were like Puddock.
Poor little fellow!' So, after awhile, Devereux returned to his chair before the fire, and on his way again drank of the waters of Lethe, and sat down, not forgetting, but remorseful, over the fire.
'I'll drink no more to-night--there--curse me if I do.' The fire was waxing low in the grate.