It was a craft to turn to in extremity; but he did not think of it yet.
Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more quickly.

The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight solace.

There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half lost in a forest, thinking.

And yet it was not thought, but a vague, mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish of having forfeited them.

There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth, and he had been dwelling in it.