My hear trembles with the trepidation of her refusal and scorn. How must I continue when she has so thoroughly slain me? I gain not a thing but spite from her with my living heart. I must ask of her: If my ghost had come hither to her bedside, would she have the strength to refuse me?
For there is no slaying what is dead whether it is a incorporeal form of the shadow of my heart. As the candle wanes and the shadows lengthen so does my love, but then it begins to die as the heart's shadow is eclipsed into the background of darkness!
I sense he husbands failure and I must pursue what he has left. I know she has no strength to stir his prude and passionless dreams. I am there awaiting her beckoning, ghostly I will assist her in preserving her heart. Her Love! For what has a better view of preservation then a ghost, especially since she rejected and killed me, my love is already spent on her, so what loss of hers is it that she collects? For my innocence still quakes for her from with in myself, much more disturbing than ever could her repentance be.
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