It drives one mad at times. He brought me past this house, and I thought I would call and leave your brother’s letter. The rest of his attire was nondescript. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. It wasn’t pretty. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. 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.
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