Save
He was angry; not as the irritable, from chafing of a trifle; nor was his anger like the fool’s, pumped from the wells of nothing, to be dissipated by a reproach or a curse; it was the wrath peculiar to ardent natures rudely awakened by the sudden annihilation of a hope –dream, if you will– in which the choicest happinesses were thought to be certainly in reach. In such case nothing intermediate will carry off the passion –the quarrel is with Fate.
