His moods alternated with the rapidity of flying clouds. At one
instant he was furious with pain, at the next broken and lax from the
same cause. At one moment he cursed God and desired to die, defiant
and raging; at the next he sank down into himself as weak as a
tortured child, while tears ran down his cheeks and little moans as of
an animal murmured in his throat. God was a hated adversary, a
merciless Judge ... a Blind Fate ... there was no God ... He was a
Fiend.... there was nothing anywhere in the whole universe but Pain
and Vanity....

Yet, through it all, like a throbbing pedal note, ran his need of this
girl. He would do anything, suffer anything, make any sacrifice,
momentary or lifelong, if he could but see her again, hold her hand
for one instant, look into her eyes mysterious with the secret of
death. He had but three or four words to say to her, just to secure
himself that she lived and was still his, and then ... then he would
say good-bye to her, content and happy to wait till death should
reunite them. Ah! he asked so little, and God would not give it him.

All, then, was a mockery. It was only this past summer that he had
begun to fancy himself in love with Maggie Deronnais. It had been an
emotion of very quiet growth, developing gently, week by week, feeding
on her wholesomeness, her serenity, her quiet power, her cool, capable
hands, and the look in her direct eyes; it resembled respect rather
than passion, and need rather than desire; it was a hunger rather than
a thirst. Then had risen up this other, blinding and bewildering; and,
he told himself, he now knew the difference. His lips curled into
bitter and resentful lines as he contemplated the contrast. And all
was gone, shattered and vanished; and even Maggie was now impossible.