... the white room larded with books: the face noble and reticent, and the swift births of amaze, of pity, of horror ... indecorous death. Pale hands fluttering up like rebellious dreams—and fallen.
My own hands bar my eyes.... How do I know this is not morbid nonsense?
—What then is sense?
I am not so used to murder that this news, passionately close to my love’s life, should not move me.
—I do not blame you, that you are moved.
“What can I do?”
I speak these words aloud, and the despair that dwells in them takes shape. Shape of an impulsion. I know already what I am going to do. But I contrive even now to laugh at myself.
—Fine man of science, driven by despair. Illogical, driven man!