His jealousy couldn't stand much more of this sort of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to help the search; glad blindly, unreasonably--only because it would keep her longer in his sight--since she wouldn't give up.
"I am too near her," he thought, moving a little further on the seat.

He was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinging himself on her hands, which were lying on her lap, and covering them with kisses.

He was afraid.

Nothing, nothing could shake that spell--not if she were ever so false, stupid, or degraded.

She was fate itself.