But when I came to Worth I knew its truth; for if any face ever wore a hunted--I had almost written a haunted--look, it was the white face of Sir John Maltravers.

His air seemed that of a man who was constantly expecting the arrival of some evil tidings, and at times reminded me painfully of the guilty expectation of a felon who knows that a warrant is issued for his arrest.
During my visit he spoke to me frequently about his past life, and instead of showing any reluctance to discuss the subject, seemed glad of the opportunity of disburdening his mind.

I gathered from him that the reading of Adrian Temple's memoirs had made a deep impression on his mind, which was no doubt intensified by the vision which he thought he saw in his rooms at Oxford, and by the discovery of the portrait at Royston.

Of those singular phenomena I have no explanation to offer.
The romantic element in his disposition rendered him peculiarly susceptible to the fascination of that mysticism which breathed through Temple's narrative.

He told me that almost from the first time he read it he was filled with a longing to visit the places and to revive the strange life of which it spoke.