It was a trouble to him to think of this face of Florence.
Because he felt any new compunction towards it?
No.

Because the feeling it awakened in him--of which he had had some old foreshadowing in older times--was full-formed now, and spoke out plainly, moving him too much, and threatening to grow too strong for his composure.

Because the face was abroad, in the expression of defeat and persecution that seemed to encircle him like the air.

Because it barbed the arrow of that cruel and remorseless enemy on which his thoughts so ran, and put into its grasp a double-handed sword.

Because he knew full well, in his own breast, as he stood there, tinging the scene of transition before him with the morbid colours of his own mind, and making it a ruin and a picture of decay, instead of hopeful change, and promise of better things, that life had quite as much to do with his complainings as death.