Why not all?
What sense had he shown in his obstinacy?
What honor had he served?
Why should he desire to reserve a part of a former self?
Fortune had not favored his birth, but accident had thrown him in the way to be rich and therefore powerful.

Accident! What could be more of an accident than life itself?
Then came the last sting.

The woman whom he loved, should she become his wife, would never know her name; his children--but how vain and foolish was such a questioning.

Was his name worth preserving?
Should he not rejoice in the thought that he had thrown it off?
He stopped on a corner and stood in an old doorway, where he had blacked shoes.

"George Witherspoon is right, and I have been a fool," he said.