At last she turned away and with her hands behind her head, she walked slowly up and down the room, and as often as she paused before the vase, she behaved like one whose heart is breaking.
But time was hastening on, an hour is so short when one would have it stay.

Alas! nowhere was there any help, any refuge.

She was abandoned.
She had nothing in the world but this one flowering plant which she called Szilard.

And the moments swiftly galloping after one another called for a decision.

There must be an end to it.