He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, and it impelled him to go away without pause. It was all one flash to Dorothea -- his last words -- his distant bow to her as he reached the door -- the sense that he was no longer there. She sank into the chair, and for a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions were hurrying upon her. Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train behind it -- joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will loved and was renouncing, that there was really no other love less permissible, more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from. They were parted all the same, but -- Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt her strength return -- she could think of him unrestrainedly. At that moment the parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and being loved excluded sorrow. It was as if some hard icy pressure had melted,