It was over then—for him…. And again and again he murmured: "It's all over."
He leaned weakly against the wall.
Then he listened.
This woman who could not yield with sufficient fervour to the abandon of passionate speech and action—this was Alice, his Alice, with her fine sobriety, her philosophic clearness of mind.
And that young fool whose mouth she closed with long kisses of gratitude for his folly—did he realise the blessedness which had fallen to the lot of his crude youth? It was over … all over.
And he was so worn, so passionless, so autumnal of soul, that he could smile wearily in the midst of his pain.
Very carefully he descended the creaking stairs, locked the door of the house and stood on the street—still smiling.
It was over … all over.
Her future was trodden into the mire, hers and his own.
And in this supreme moment he grew cruelly aware of his crimes against her.