"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. Sheppard, shuddering violently. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. It was a habit of his to talk to himself. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence.
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