I remembered my father's death--a pauper he was.

I remembered how near I had been to starvation.

I remembered the years I had spent in a garret whilst Douglas had idled time away at Oxford, had left there to trifle with the business his father had founded, had his West End club, hunters, and shooting.

It was a vicious, mad, jealous hatred, perhaps, but I claim that it was human.

I went out of that little house and it seemed to me that there was a new lust in my heart, a new, craving desire.