That would be all that would be left in him of her, beyond a memory of the repulsion he had felt for her deeds.
She fancied she could have met the worst in the future less hopelessly if he could have remembered her a little more kindly when all was over.
Even now, it might be in her power to cast a veil upon the pictures in his mind.

But the mere thought was horrible to her, though a few hours before she had hardly trembled at the doing of a frightful sacrilege.

In that short time the humiliation of failure, the realisation of what she had almost done, above all the ever-rising tide of a real and passionate love, had swept away many familiar landmarks in her thoughts, and had turned much to lead which had once seemed brighter than gold.

She hated the very idea of using again those arts which had so directly wrought her utter destruction.

But she longed to know that in the world whither he would doubtless go to-morrow he would bear with him one kind memory of her, one natural friendly thought not grafted upon his mind by her power, but growing of its own self in his inmost heart.