My little Basile! My little Basile! He will see the musician kiss his mother! What thoughts will pass through his poor soul! But what does that matter to her! She loves.
"And again it all began, the circle of the same thoughts.

I suffered so much that at last I did not know what to do with myself, and an idea passed through my head that pleased me much,--to get out upon the rails, throw myself under the cars, and thus finish everything.

One thing prevented me from doing so.

It was pity! It was pity for myself, evoking at the same time a hatred for her, for him, but not so much for him.
Toward him I felt a strange sentiment of my humiliation and his victory, but toward her a terrible hatred.
"'But I cannot kill myself and leave her free.

She must suffer, she must understand at least that I have suffered,' said I to myself.
"At a station I saw people drinking at the lunch counter, and directly I went to swallow a glass of vodki.