Do not ask me any more questions.

I am going away,--flying like a coward.

I will not tempt further suffering.

And yet--once more--only once?
could that do harm?
Ah, God, my God, be merciful!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting them above her bowed head.

Then remembering, in the midst of her anguish, some words she had been reading that morning, she repeated them with a bitter emphasis,--"What can wringing of the hands do, that which is ordained to alter ?" As she did so she tore asunder her clasped hands, to drop them clinched by her side,--the gesture of despair substituted for that of hope.
"It is not Heaven I am to besiege!" she exclaimed.