Chapter 17 No.17

"Upon my mind, weighed down with woe,

Crowd thoughts, a heavy multitude:

In silence memory unfolds

Her long, long scroll before my eyes.

Loathing and shuddering I curse

And bitterly lament in vain,

And bitter though the tears I weep

I do not wash those lines away."

PUSHKIN.

Whether they killed him next morning, or mocked