I could go back and be his comforter--his pride; his redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin.

Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment--far worse than my abandonment--how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in.

Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love.

What was I?
In the midst of my pain of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself.

I had no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect.