The only reality of his life was here.
He took from his pocket a few letters one of which was worn and soiled with frequent handling.

He re-read it in a half methodical, half patient way, as if he were waiting for some revelation it inspired, which was slow that afternoon in coming.

At other times it had called up a youthful enthusiasm which was wont to transfigure his grave and prematurely reserved face with a new expression.

To-day the revelation and expression were both wanting.

He put the letter back with a slight sigh, that sounded so preposterous in the silent room that he could not forego an embarrassed smile.