It appears that he was an unsuccessful admirer of the lady in question, and he admits that, under the influence of drink, he broke into her rooms, and there made a determined attempt at suicide. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. I hated him. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.
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