"My son, I want no rest.

It is rest which is killing me.

I am going across.

I am going to see her again, if only from the curb as she rolls past in her carriage, looking at me but not recognizing me, telling her footman to brush me aside should I attempt to speak to her.

Yet I would suffer this humiliation to see that glorious face once more, to hear again that voice, though it were keyed to scorn.