I could see little through the tangle, yet succeeded in convincing myself that I was alone, and free to begin my explorations.
Yet I faced this work with less enthusiasm than I felt when first proposing it.

The knowledge that Philip Henley was alive; that any discoveries I might make would benefit him even more than his wife, had robbed me of my earlier interest in the outcome.

Nothing I had heard of the man was favorable to his character.

I felt profoundly convinced that whatever affection his wife might have once entertained for him had long ago vanished through neglect and abuse.

My sympathies were altogether with her, and I had already begun to dream of her as free.
She had come into contact with my life in such a way as to impress me greatly; we had been thrown together in strange familiarity.