I took the usual way home. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months.
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