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Death was in his heart. He saw his familiar, luxurious room as in a dream, and Jane, anxious-eyed, looking into the fire, and Barney Bill a little way off, clutching his hard felt hat against his body; but his eyes were fixed on the strange, many-passioned, unbalanced man who claimed to be nay, who was his father. "When I first met you that night my heart went out to you," he was saying.
It is its nature to change. The single passion cannot engross the large, many-passioned, complex nature, so rich and various in motivity, so large and comprehensive in its surveys the single passion seeks in vain to subdue it to its single end. That reigning passion must give way when it is spent, or sooner if its master come.
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