She felt neither grief nor fear.  Through much suffering, thought and sensation were, to a great extent, dead in her; and, in a sort of emotive numbness, she laid her candlestick in its usual place on the chair by her bedside; and, sitting up in bed, her night-dress carefully buttoned, holding the tumbler half-filled with chloral, she tried to take a dispassionate survey of her life.  She thought of what she had endured, and what she would have to endure if she did not take it.  Then she felt she must go, and without hesitation drank off the chloral.  She placed the tumbler by the candlestick, and lay down, remembering vaguely that a long time ago she had decided that suicide was not wrong in itself.  The last thing she remembered was the clock striking eleven.

For half an hour she slept like stone.  Then her eyes opened, and they told of sickness now in motion within her.  And, strangely enough, through the overpowering nausea rising from her stomach to her brain, the thought that she was not going to die appeared perfectly clear, and with it a sense of disappointment; she would have to begin it all over again.  It was with great difficulty that she struck a match and lighted a candle.  It seemed impossible to get up.  At last she managed to slip her legs out of bed, and found she could stand, and through the various assaults of retching she thought of the letter:  it must be destroyed; and, leaning in the corner against the wall and the wardrobe, she tried to recover herself.  A dull, deep sleep was pressing on her brain, and she thought she would never be able to cross the room to where the letter was.  Dandy looked out of his rug; she caught sight of his bright eyes.

On cold and shaky feet she attempted to make her way towards the letter; but the room heaved up at her, and, fearing she should fall, and knowing if she did that she would not be able to regain her feet, she clung to the toilette-table.  She must destroy that letter:  if it were found, they would watch her; and, however impossible her life might become, she would not be able to escape from it.  This consideration gave her strength for a final effort.  She tore the letter into very small pieces, and then, clinging to a chair, strove to grasp the rail of the bed; but the bed rolled worse than any ship.  Making a supreme effort, she got in; and then, neither dreams nor waking thoughts, but oblivion complete.  Hours and hours passed, and when she opened her eyes her maid stood over the bed, looking at her.

’Oh, miss, you looked so tired and ill that I didn’t wake you.  You do seem poorly, miss.  It is nearly two o’clock.  Should you like to sleep a little longer, or shall I bring you up some breakfast?’

’No, no, no, thank you.  I couldn’t touch anything.  I’m feeling wretched; but I’ll get up.’