But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out.
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