I am a dead woman. Dead and insane.

For the first time I saw her as a dead body under suspended sentence.

You wonder about her crime. She was condemned to death for stealing clothes from her employer, from the wife of her employer. She wished to make herself more beautiful. This desire in servants was not legal.

Murder... murder... Can you prove it was murder? [...] I didn't think you could prove it was murder. She was dying in any event.

Once upon a time there was a lady. She had no children, and no happiness either. And at first she cried for a long time, but then she became wicked . . .

There is something female about being dead.

She was born without reason … to die; and she dies without reason….

A woman who has no way of expressing herself and realizing herself as a full human has nothing else to turn to but the owning of material things.

Is she dead?” Norman asked. I rolled her onto her stomach to try to force the water out of her. I pushed on her chest and her shirt came up to reveal a hole. “Is that…” Norman stopped. I touched the blackened indentation. “She’s been shot,” I said. “Good Lord,” Norman said. “She’s dead.” “We should have left her where she was,” Norman said. “At least she’d be a live slave. Not just another dead runaway.” I studied the lifeless body on the ground before me. “She was dead when I found her,” I said. “She’s just now died again, but this time she died free.

Good manners without sincerity are like a beautiful dead lady.

Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death.

She was young and very beautiful, but pale, like the grey pallor of death.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

She would be no one if that was what it took. No one had no holes inside her.