His dreams were not of strength and destruction, but of influence and life.

Even his revenges never-reached further than the making of his enemies ashamed.
It was the spirit of help, then, that had urged him into the profession he followed.

He had found much dirt about the door of it, and had not been able to cross the threshold without some cleaving to his garments.
He is a high-souled youth indeed, in whom the low regards and corrupt knowledge of his superiors will fail utterly of degrading influence; he must be one stronger than Faber who can listen to scoffing materialism from the lips of authority and experience, and not come to look upon humanity and life with a less reverent regard.

What man can learn to look upon the dying as so much matter about to be rekneaded and remodeled into a fresh mass of feverous joys, futile aspirations, and stinging chagrins, without a self-contempt from which there is no shelter but the poor hope that we may be a little better than we appear to ourselves.

But Faber escaped the worst.