Perhaps, unconsciously, I did.

It was only when the end came that she broke down, although she knew exactly what the end would be.

And I, too, felt a lump in my throat when they sentenced Anastasius Papadopoulos to the asylum, and I saw him for the last time, the living parody of Napoleon III, frock-coated and yellow-gloved, the precious, newly written dossier in his hand, as he disappeared with a mournful smile from the court, after bowing low to the judge and to us, without having understood the significance of anything that had happened.
In the carriage that took us home she wept and sobbed bitterly.
"I loved him so.

He was the only creature on earth that loved me.

He loved me as only a dog can love--or an angel." I let her cry.