He could not even condole with himself that he was the victim of miserable falsehoods that others had invented.

SHE had accepted them, and had even excused her desertion of him by that last deceit of the letter.
He drew out her photograph and again examined it, but not as a lover.

Had she really grown stouter and more self-complacent?
Was the spirituality and delicacy he had worshiped in her purely his own idiotic fancy?
Had she always been like this?
Yes.

There was the girl who could weakly strive, weakly revenge herself, and weakly forget.

There was the figure that he had expected to find carved upon the tomb which he had long sought that he might weep over.