With material loves, as with human, we go mad once, love out, and have done.

We never get up the true enthusiasm a second time.

This was but a thing he had made, laboured over, loved and liked--nothing more--not his machine.
The stranger forced himself lower down in the saddle and yawned.

It was a drowsy afternoon, and he objected to travel in these out-of-the-world parts.

He liked better civilised life, where at every hour of the day a man may look for his glass of wine, and his easy-chair, and paper; where at night he may lock himself into his room with his books and a bottle of brandy, and taste joys mental and physical.