She would not face anything for his sake.
She had decided to leave him to his fate.
She who looked so gentle, was hard; she who wept at a bird's grief over its rifled nest, was callous of suffering.

She, who had seemed to love him--he felt still her hands holding his hands against her breast--had never loved him.

She did not know what love was.
She was inhuman, a monster.

He saw it at last.
There is in love a spiritual repulsion to which physical repulsion at its worst is but a pale shadow.

Those who give love to one who cannot love may not escape the stroke of that poisoned fang.