He read them all.
Till the early daybreak he remained in the room, sometimes walking about, sometimes seating himself to re-read this letter and that.
Twenty-four hours ago these written words would have touched his heart indeed, but only as does the memory of an irrecoverable joy; he could have read them, and still have gone to meet Beatrice as usual, or with but a little more than his ordinary reserve in her presence.

It was otherwise now.

The very voice had spoken again, and its tones lingering with him made the written characters vocal; each word uttered itself as it met his eye; Emily spoke still.

The paper was old, the ink faded, but the love was of this hour.

He grew fevered, and it was the fever of years ago, which had only been in appearance subdued; it had lurked still in his blood, and now asserted itself with the old dire mastery.
He marvelled that he had suffered her to leave him without even learning where she lived.