That was one of the compensations for having consigned himself to this part of the world. Wood. There never is much left for me. 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. He stirred continually, thrusting his legs about and flinging his arms above his head. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors.
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