There was something exquisitely painful in the memories that crowded upon his mind: a thousand of Constance's daily acts of affection rose before him: neyer till this moment had he felt them unrequited; but now they were remembered like a reproach.
Some eight thousand (being late conquest) was liquid and actually tractile in the bank; the rest whirled beyond reach and even sight (save in the mirror of a balance-sheet) under the compelling spell of wizard Pinkerton.
when my occasions took me into France
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