No sorrow, no agonies, were now of any avail for ever.

Little Wonder would surely die, and all the old lost opportunities of loving her could never return.

He had loved the shadow.

This was a part of the price.
Day after day the cruel fever consumed Wonder as fire consumes a flower.
Her tiny face seemed too small for the visitation of such suffering as burned and hammered behind the high white brow, and yellowed and drew tight the skin upon the cheeks.

She had so recently known the strange pain of being born.