The stroke of the pen was done in a moment which led unconsciously to our ruin; the word was uttered quite heedlessly, on which turned for ever the decision of our weal or woe.
Eric lay silent.

The darkness was not broken by the flashing of an angel's wing, the stillness was not syllabled by the sound of an angel's voice; but to his dying day Eric never forgot the moments which passed, until, weary and self-reproachful, he fell asleep.
Next morning he awoke, restless and feverish.

He at once remembered what had passed.

Bull's words haunted him; he could not forget them; they burnt within him like the flame of a moral fever.

He was moody and petulant, and for a time could hardly conceal his aversion to Bull.