He stood looking moodily at the ground, where his nosegay of violets and alders was all scattered and trampled.
Suddenly he had the feeling as of a thief in another man's garden, and a shame before Dorothy herself came over him.

Eugene Hautville's principles of honor, in spite of his fiery nature, read like a primer, with no subtleties of evasion therein.

Here was another man's betrothed, and he had wooed her away! He had kissed her lips, which were vowed to another.

He had wronged her and Burr Gordon also.
Strangely enough, Dorothy's own responsibility never occurred to him at all; he never dreamed of blaming her for falsity either to himself or Burr.

That little fair trembling creature, clad like a violet in her mottled blue, seemed to him at once above and below all questions of personal agency.