mona lisa painting

axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at
the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering- and oh!
with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of
him now- in his room- watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon
come to say I would stay with him and be his. I longed to be his; I
panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the
bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was
undiscovered. I could go back and be his comforter- his pride; his
redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his
self-abandonment- far worse than my abandonment- how it goaded me!
It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast; it tore me when I tried to
extract it; it sickened me when remembrance thrust it farther in.
Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were faithful to their
mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of my pain
of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I had
no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. I had
injured- wounded- left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes.