With that one deadly stroke of the great church bell, all was gone--fortune, friends, wealth, dignity.
The majestic front of the palace of his hopes was but a flimsy, painted tissue.

The fire that ran through his tortured brain consumed the gaudy, artificial thing in the flash and rush of a single flame, and left behind only the charred skeleton framework, which had supported the vast canvas.
And then, he saw it again and again looming suddenly out of the darkness, brightening into beauty and the semblance of strength, to be as suddenly destroyed once more.

With each frantic beat of his heart the awful transformation was renewed.

For dreams need not time to spin out their intolerable length.

With each burning throb of his raging blood, every nerve in his body, every aching recess of his brain, was pierced and twisted, and pierced again with unceasing agony.
Then a new horror was added to the rest.