In the morning she was a dried channel of tears, no longer self-pitiful; careless of herself, as she thought: in other words, unable any further to contend.
Reality was too strong! This morning her sisters came to her room imploring her to yield:--if she married Alvan, what could be their prospects as the sisters-in law of such a man ?--her betrothed sister Lotte could not hope to espouse Count Walburg: Alvan's name was infamous in society; their house would be a lazar-house, they would be condemned to seclusion.

A favourite brother followed, with sympathy that set her tears running again, and arguments she could not answer: how could he hold up his head in his regiment as the relative of the scandalous Jew democrat?
He would have to leave the service, or be duelling with his brother officers every other day of his life, for rightly or wrongly Alvan was abhorred, and his connection would be fatal to them all, perhaps to her father's military and diplomatic career principally: the head of their house would be ruined.

She was compelled to weep again by having no other reply.

The tears were now mixed drops of pity for her absent lover and her family; she was already disunited from him when she shed them, feeling that she was dry rock to herself, heartless as many bosoms drained of self-pity will become.
Incapable of that any further, she leaned still in that direction and had a languid willingness to gain outward comfort.

To be caressed a little by her own kindred before she ceased to live was desireable after her heavy scourging.