She tried to talk to her saviour, to the man who was the messenger of life.
"Oh, Tom! How could I fear to die after he was taken away from me so cruelly! How could I! How could I be such a coward!" She lamented aloud her love of life, that life without grace or charm, and almost without decency, but of an exalted faithfulness of purpose, even unto murder.

And, as often happens in the lament of poor humanity, rich in suffering but indigent in words, the truth--the very cry of truth--was found in a worn and artificial shape picked up somewhere among the phrases of sham sentiment.
"How could I be so afraid of death! Tom, I tried.

But I am afraid.

I tried to do away with myself.

And I couldn't.