Can _this_ be the day I called good?
Can _this_ be that bright and merry day, when I walked elate and laughing between the deep furrows, and heard the blackbird and thrush woo their new loves, nor was able myself to refrain from singing?
My brain is a black chaos of whirling agonies, now together, now parting; so that each may make their separate sting felt, and, in turn, each will have to be faced.

Preeminent among the dark host, towering above even the thought of Barbara, is the sense of my own degradation.
There must have been something in my conduct to justify his taking me so confidently for the bad, light woman he did.

One does not get such a character for nothing.

I have always heard that, when such things happen to people, they have invariably brought them on themselves.

In incoherent misery, I run over in my head, as well as the confusion of it will let me, our past meetings and dialogues.