Black night, cedars, brush, rocks, washes, seemed not to obstruct her.
In a frenzy she rushed on, tearing her dress, her hands, her hair.
Violence of some kind was imperative. All at once a pale gleaming open
space, shimmering under the stars, lay before her. It was water. Deep
Lake! And instantly a hideous terrible longing to destroy herself
obsessed her. She had no fear. She could have welcomed the cold, slimy
depths that meant oblivion. But could they really bring oblivion? A year
ago she would have believed so, and would no longer have endured such
agony. She had changed. A cursed strength had come to her, and it was
this strength that now augmented her torture. She flung wide her arms to
the pitiless white stars and looked up at them. "My hope, my faith,
my love have failed me," she whispered. "They have been a lie. I went
through hell for them. And now I've nothing to live for.... Oh, let me
end it all!"

If she prayed to the stars for mercy, it was denied her. Passionlessly
they blazed on. But she could not kill herself. In that hour death would
have been the only relief and peace left to her. Stricken by the cruelty
of her fate, she fell back against the stones and gave up to grief.
Nothing was left but fierce pain. The youth and vitality and intensity
of her then locked arms with anguish and torment and a cheated,
unsatisfied love. Strength of mind and body involuntarily resisted the
ravages of this catastrophe. Will power seemed nothing, but the flesh
of her, that medium of exquisite sensation, so full of life, so prone to
joy, refused to surrender. The part of her that felt fought terribly for
its heritage.