Sometimes it was as though he had no name at all. Ozias Midwinter, after all, had only ever been a borrowed name; and Allan Armadale—despite that the sadness and horror the name had brought were in the past now—still seemed so closely connected with those awful shadows of the past that he shuddered to think it still his own.

But then Allan—his Allan—would smile his own smile, bright and easy as the sunlight sparkling upon the water of the Broads in June, at him, and flinging an arm round his shoulders call him ‘Ozias’ in his lovely laughing voice, and kiss him; and then all the shadows would flee, and all the past grief and sorrow were gone, and both his names were things only and entirely of present happiness.