Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed the position of Mr. Palliser's house, having come out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to the house. Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows. What did he expect to see? Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object,--that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. There was in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse. He wanted money. 
From there Burgo went back into Grosvenor Square, and down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews into Park Lane. He walked along the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite the Palliser house. Then he stood there, leaning on the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows. What did he expect to see? He was not impelled by love. He felt a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse. He wanted money. 