Failure
It was queer, watching something crash and burn so quickly. He executed everything with such perfection, such coldness, that he disbelieved anything could go wrong because it hadn't permission to go wrong. When Phileas Fogg decided a thing should be, it was.
He was, he knew (or believed), a selfish man. Even now, alone in his room, frozen with a feeling he didn't know he had--shock--he thought only of himself. Little matter what Passepartout or Aouda felt. He had failed.
Slowly, he sank down, putting his face in his hands. He'd never done that before in his life.
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