A sense of horror came over me, for what exact reason I could not make out; but I got out of my bed at once, and bare-footed and just as I was, made my way down the two nights of stairs to the sitting-room.
You returned silently for money; took what you could find on the dressing table, and mantelpiece, and left the house with your luggage.
Need I tell you what I thought of you during the two lonely wretched days of illness that followed?
Is it necessary for me to state, that I saw clearly that it would be a dishonour to myself to continue even an acquaintance with such a one as you had showed yourself to be?
That I recognised that the ultimate moment had come and recognised it as being really a great relief?
And that I knew that for the future my art and life would be freer and better and more beautiful in every possible way?
Ill as I was, I felt at ease.

The fact that the separation was irrevocable gave me peace.
Wednesday was my birthday.

Amongst the telegrams and communications on my table was a letter in your handwriting.

I opened it with a sense of sadness on me.

I knew that the time had gone by when a pretty phrase, an expression of affection, a word of sorrow, would make me take you back.
But I was entirely deceived.