The madness may be ours, but they sow it.

Ah! do they not know how to rouse and enrage it; how to fan, to burn, to lull, to pierce, to slake, to inflame, to entice, to sting?
Heavens! so well they know--that their beauty must come, one thinks, out of hell itself!" His great eyes gleamed like fire, his hollow chest panted for breath, the sweat stood out on his temples.

Cecil sought to soothe him, but his words rushed on with the impetuous course of the passionate memories that arose in him.
"Do you know what brought me here?
No! As little as I know what brought you, though we have been close comrades all these years.

Well, it was she! I was an artist.

I had no money, I had few friends; but I had youth, I had ambition, I had, I think, genius, till she killed it.