"The queer thing was the sudden and unexpected way in which it
all stopped. I was going to my work after breakfast one morning,
thinking as usual of her and of my misery, when, just as if some
outside power laid hold of me, I found myself turning round and
almost running to my room, where I immediately got out all the
relics of her which I possessed, including some hair, all her
notes and letters and ambrotypes on glass. The former I made a
fire of, the latter I actually crushed beneath my heel, in a sort
of fierce joy of revenge and punishment. I now loathed and
despised her altogether, and as for myself I felt as if a load of
disease had suddenly been removed from me. That was the end. I
never spoke to her or wrote to her again in all the subsequent
years, and I have never had a single moment of loving thought
towards one for so many months entirely filled my heart. In
fact, I have always rather hated her memory, though now I can see
that I had gone unnecessarily far in that direction. At any
rate, from that happy morning onward I regained possession of my
own proper soul, and have never since fallen into any similar
trap.
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