I die, Iris dear, with the death of that hope.

Something in me seems to shrink from suicide in the ugly gloom of great overgrown London.

I prefer to make away with myself among the fields, where the green will remind me of dear old Ireland.

When you think of me sometimes, say to yourself the poor wretch loved me--and perhaps the earth will lie lighter on Harry for those kind words, and the flowers (if you favour me by planting a few) may grow prettier on my grave." There it ended.
The heart of Iris sank as she read that melancholy farewell, expressed in language at once wild and childish.

If he survived his desperate attempt at self-destruction, to what end would it lead?
In silence, the woman who loved him put his letter back in her bosom.