"He thought of her no longer, he was anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might die.
Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us.
But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and
the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and sooner it goes from us the better.
It was going from him now, and therefore he gave the cry of pain.
She did not call anymore, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when she revived,
she was lying on the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust in her mouth, and dust down her ears.
There is something very terrible in dust at night-time."
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