Seventeen years had
passed since he had taken Dora's hand in his and told her he
cared nothing for all he was leaving behind him, nothing for any
one in the world save herself--seventeen years, and his love-
dream had lasted but two! Then came the cruel shock that blinded
him with anger and shame; then came the rude awakening from his
dream when, looking his life bravely in the face, he found it
nothing but a burden--hope and ambition gone--the grand
political mission he had once believed to be his own impossible
nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence--and
all for what? For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face. He
hated himself for his weakness and folly. For that--for the
fair, foolish woman who had shamed him so sorely--he had half
broken his mother's heart, and had imbittered his father's life.
For that he had made himself an exile, old in his youth, worn and
weary, when life should have been all smiling around him.
These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train
whirled through the quiet English landscape. Winter snows had
fallen, the great bare branches of the tall trees were gaunt and
snow-laden, the fields were one vast expanse of snow, the frost
had hardened the icicles hanging from hedges and trees.
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