§ iii
Not fifteen minutes ahead of him Malloy was making his way to the ferry.
“My God, what a mess!” he was saying over and over to himself. He had never in his life felt so shabby, so shamefaced, as he had felt that evening. There was no triumph in this love; he was a thief. He had mortally stricken that poor little chap. He had humiliated and hurt Edna. He had involved himself and Andrée in a disgusting scandal.
“We never can be happy,” he said. “Not on such a foundation.... But I don’t care! I’d rather have her and be miserable all my life!”