lost its charm, and irritated where it was wont to soothe; then he flung himself down on a couch, with his head dropped on his hands, and sat there immovable many moments, with a quick shudder running through his limbs, and the silence about him like a dead intolerable weight. For now that his work was done he loathed it; now that he had betrayed her, he could have killed himself; now that he had given her over to captivity and torture, he was haunted, and wrung, and maddened with the thoughts that for ever pursued him. Yet—he would not have undone it if he could; he would not have foregone his revenge had it been in his power; since she was denied to him, he loved to know that she suffered, that she had pain, and fetters, and shame, that she would live to wish she had listened to his love, and to feel the cost of having mocked him and repulsed him.
She had refused him all the sweetness of passion; he would not have loosened his hand on its vengeance. Since she could never be his, let her lose all likeness of herself, and perish as she might! There was fierceness enough in him to feel that ruthlessly; there was sufficient savageness in him beneath the polish of the world and the serenity of his egotism to be eager—thirstily and brutally eager
