She gave up her walks for fear she might see them, and thus be so deeply wounded that her sufferings would be increased tenfold.

She felt as if something were dying within her, as if, little by little, her very life was passing away.
One evening, after one of these meetings, when alone in her chamber, stifling from anguish, she uttered this cry: "But he loves me no longer." She saw before her, mentally, Claire de Voincourt, tall, beautiful, with her crown of black hair, and he was at her side, slight, proud, and handsome.

Were they not really created for each other, of the same race, so well mated that one might think they were already married?
"He no longer loves me! Oh! he no longer loves me!" This exclamation broke from her lips as if it were the ruin of all her hopes, and, her faith once shaken, everything gave way without her being able to examine the facts of the case or to regard them calmly.

The previous evening she believed in something, but that had now passed by.
A breath, coming from she knew not where, had been sufficient, and all at once by a single blow she had fallen into the greatest despair--that of thinking she was not beloved.

He had indeed spoken wisely when he told her once that this was the only real grief, the one insupportable torture.