Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth.

She was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the flesh crept.

She was going to die.
It was a bitterly cold night toward the end of January when Jenny died.
She had been curiously alert and restless all the afternoon.

Once when Theophil and she had been alone, she beckoned him with a grave, significant gesture to her side.

She was lying down, and she made as if she would sit up.