And it is not my fault.

Can I help if it I love that woman?
Can I help it if my blood dries up with longing for her, and if I lie awake hour by hour of nights, ay, and weep--I, Frank Muller, who saw the murdered bodies of my father and my mother and shed no tear--because she hates me and will not look favourably upon me?
"Oh, woman! woman! They talk of ambition and of avarice and of self-preservation as the keys of character and action, but what force is there to move us like a woman?
A little thing, a weak fragile thing--a toy from which the rain will wash the paint and of which the rust will stop the working, and yet a thing that can shake the world and pour out blood like water, and bring down sorrow like the rain.

So! I stand by the boulder.

A touch and it will go crashing down the mountain-side so that the world hears it.

Shall I send it?
It is all one to me.