No matter if she had consented, it was his duty to have protected her, even against herself.
He walked the floor with great strides, steaming with the warm water, striking his head with his hands and crying out, "Oh, this is fearful, fearful! What have I done now?
I have killed her; yes, and worse!" He could think of nothing worse that could have happened to him.

What a weight of responsibility to carry--he who hated responsibility of any kind, who had always tried to escape from anything that was even irksome, who loved his ease, his comfort, his peace of mind! At every moment now he saw the different consequences of what he had done.

Now, it was that his life was ruined, and that all through its course this crime would hang like a millstone about his neck.

There could be no more enjoyment of anything for him; all the little pleasures and little self-indulgences which till now had delighted him were spoiled and rendered impossible.

The rest of his life would have to be one long penitence; any pleasure he might take would only make his crime seem more abominable.
Now, it was a furious revolt against his mistake that had led him to such a fearful misunderstanding of Ida; a silent impotent rage against himself and against the brute in him that he had permitted to drag him to this thing.
Now, it was a wave of an immense pity for the dead girl that overcame him, and he saw himself as another person, destroying what she most cherished for the sake of gratifying an unclean passion.
Now, it was a terror for himself.