Out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin.

When Lord Henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.
It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out.

There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life.

But it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change.

His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm.
With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so.