Did I want to flee from Winnie? Why, memory was Winnie now; and did
I want to flee from _her_? And yet it was memory that was goading me
on to the verge of madness. No doubt the reader thinks me a weak
creature for allowing the passion of pity to sap my manhood in this
fashion. But it was not so much her death as the manner of her death
that withered my heart and darkened my soul. The calamities which
fell upon her, grievous beyond measure, unparalleled, not to be
thought of save with a pallor of cheek and a shudder of the flesh,
were ever before me, mocking me--maddening me.
'Died in a hovel!' As I gave voice to this impeachment of Heaven,
night after night, wandering up and down the streets, my brain was
being scorched and withered by those same thoughts of anger against
destiny and most awful revolt which had appalled me when first I saw
how the curse of Heaven or the whim of Circumstance had been
fulfilled.
Then came that passionate yearning for death, which grief such as
mine must needs bring. But if what Materialism teaches were true,
suicide would rob me even of my memory of her.
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