But this blow was nothing, purely automatic, like his first
blow, not bringing with it that faint sense of something refreshing,
the momentary appeasement of his agony. For in truth the torture that
he himself suffered was almost unendurable. Yet up to now his pain,
though so tremendous, was unlocalized; it came from a fusion of all
his thoughts, and perhaps each separate thought, when it became clear,
would bring more pain than all the thoughts together.
The world had tumbled about his ears; his glorious life had shriveled
to nothing; his pride was gone, his love was gone, his trust in man
and his belief in man's creator; and for a few moments one thought
grew a little clearer than the rest. The end of all this must be
death--nothing less. He was really dead already, and he would not
pretend to go on living. He would finish her, and then finish himself.
Turning his head, he looked at the window; and the open space out
there seemed to whisper to him, to beg to him, and to command him.
Yes, that way would be as good as another--strangle her, pitch her
out, and jump out after her.
"Will!" She had once more scrambled to her knees. "I've loved you
faithfully. I've never loved any one but you."
He did not hit her.
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