In her heart, too, the fierceness of her pain was overcast.

Something infinitely sad, yet infinitely peaceful, stilled her pulses.

Infinitely sad, yet infinitely funny too.

How small, how insignificant, this tangle of the whole-hearted and the half-hearted; what did it all come to, and how feel suffering as tragic when farce grimaced so close beside it?
Who could take it seriously when, in life, the whole-hearted were so deceived and based their loves on such illusion?
To feel the irony was to acquiesce, perhaps, and acquiescence, even if only momentary, like the lull and softness in nature, was better than the beating fierceness of rebellion.

Everything was over.