Constance Garnett

quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not

“Again!” he observed despairingly. “It’s going to rain again! It is raining every day, as though to spite me. I might as well hang myself! It’s ruin! Fearful losses every day.”

there was not one face of those I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place