All things looked black, and cold, and deadly upon him, and he on them.

He found a likeness to his misfortune everywhere.

There was a remorseless triumph going on about him, and it galled and stung him in his pride and jealousy, whatever form it took: though most of all when it divided with him the love and memory of his lost boy.
There was a face--he had looked upon it, on the previous night, and it on him with eyes that read his soul, though they were dim with tears, and hidden soon behind two quivering hands--that often had attended him in fancy, on this ride.

He had seen it, with the expression of last night, timidly pleading to him.

It was not reproachful, but there was something of doubt, almost of hopeful incredulity in it, which, as he once more saw that fade away into a desolate certainty of his dislike, was like reproach.