A man comes home and sees his house engulfed with fire, the flames darting from every joint, and it gradually dawns on him that this is that end of everything of which he has sometimes vaguely dreamed and which did he but know it, he has been expecting all his life.

The weft and warp of intrigue are dangerous things if you once start pulling at the ends.

At that moment they recalled all that was ever dear to them, all that was sacred and cherished and loved, all that had helped them to accept life and to bear its burdens. A man becomes so accustomed to these ancient idols in his heart, he puts his best hopes in them for so long, that the possibility of losing them never really occurs to him. Then the moment comes when he sees their loss not as an abstraction, not as a figment of his fearful imagination, but as a plain fact, which there is no going against. Confronted with this reality, a man cannot at first bear the pain it brings.