"Your faults were the faults of circumstances. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. ‘I don’t want to hurt you any more. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. You feel that that smile is for you, the words are for you, the whole song is for you. There will be no avoiding it. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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