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 left her. She thought it was a dream deluding her, that what had happened was not real, that she had fallen into a fever and some illusion was mocking her. Was it possible that she had fallen from such a height into an abyss, and lost everything, even hope? Could it be that there was no choice left her but a low, mean act or a convent? Overcome by the thought, she fell on the rug like a birch tree suddenly cut down.

“Oh, the cup of my life is being filled with wormwood, and in its golden shell an extremely bitter kernel is forming itself,” she exclaimed, and wept. “Do not think, father, that your severity will subdue me, or that you will incline me to your aims. A hundred times rather will I rot in my living grave than simulate love to any man, vilely beg for the paltry glitter of earthly power, sneak into his heart, and through his sincere affection for me gratify your ambition. What you call glory I call shame. We have comprehended each other, and we part forever; peace is not possible between us. No, no; what my father