cannot bear to wake up another morning, knowing that the day will hold no pleasure, only pain,’ says Helen, ‘and that the next day when I wake it will be just the same, except I will be a little older, a little further down the path I am now obliged to travel. I can look back over my shoulder, but that is all. I cannot turn, and go back the way I came, which was through green grass and flowers, bright days, and black nights with brilliant stars. I want to finish now, sit down and fall asleep, while these good things can still at least be seen when I look back. Soon I will have travelled so far they will have faded altogether.’