Thereupon rushed into his heart the joy of giving up, of deliverance from self; and pity, to leaven his contempt, awoke for Sercombe. No sooner had he yielded his pride, than he felt it possible to love the man—not for anything he was, but for what he might and must be.
“God let the man kill the stag,” he said; “I will let him have the head.”
George MacDonald, What’s Mine’s Mine
with backward mutters of dissevering power 