He might have wept over failure, never from remorse.

And Storri had set his savage heart on Dorothy.
Dorothy felt an aversion to Storri, and she could not have told you why.
The mystery of it, however, put no question to her; she yielded with folded hands, passive to its influence.

She did not hate Storri, she shrunk from him; his nearness chilled her like the nearness of a reptile.

Kipling, the matchless, tells how a Russian does not become alarming until he tucks in his shirt, and insists upon himself as the most Eastern of Western peoples instead of the most Western of Eastern peoples.

There is truth to sit at the bottom of this.