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.

All her love, all her being during these years had been but one secret
prayer: "Hold me, do not break me, do not desert me!"

He had been deaf. He had given her a stone for bread, irony for love,
cold doubt for warm, human trust! And in the end he had even despised
her because she had striven, with touching faith, to form herself
according to his example.

It was all fatally clear--now.

Her contradictions, her lack of feeling, her haughty scepticism--all
that had chilled and estranged him had been but a dutiful reflection
of his own being.

Need he be surprised that the last remnant of her lost and corrupted