Perhaps I let it do so because it was so little familiar to my lines of thought.

It was fresh ground and I revelled in it.

I committed myself to that kind of emotional, lyrical outburst that one dislikes so much on re-reading.
I was half conscious of the fact, but I ignored it.
The thunderstorm was over, and there was a moist sparkling freshness in the air when I hurried with my copy to the _Hour_ office in the Avenue de l'Opera.

I wished to be rid of it, to render impossible all chance of revision on the morrow.
I wanted, too, to feel elated; I expected it.

It was a right.