Providence had deceived her for over sixty years, by treating her as a gentle, good little girl, by amusing her with lying representations of tranquil joy.

And she had remained a child, senselessly believing in a thousand silly things, and unable to see life as it really is, dragging along in the sanguinary filth of passions.
Providence was bad; it should have told her the truth before, or have allowed her to continue in her innocence and blindness.

Now, it only remained for her to die, denying love, denying friendship, denying devotedness.

Nothing existed but murder and lust.
What! Camille had been killed by Therese and Laurent, and they had conceived the crime in shame! For Madame Raquin, there was such a fathomless depth in this thought, that she could neither reason it out, nor grasp it clearly.

She experienced but one sensation, that of a horrible disaster; it seemed to her that she was falling into a dark, cold hole.