It was surprisingly gentle. The slightest of shudders as if she had found something mildly distasteful. I almost believed that with her lineage she would shrug it off and move away; stately and unhurried, showing the stiff upper lip that was prevalent amongst aristocracy at the time. Not that she was unaware of the lower classes. She knew many people from that walk of life intimately, deep down within herself. But her greatest show was always for those of wealth and breeding. Who amongst them could guess that the shudder was belying the reality of her hurt? She was struggling to cope. Those who thought they knew her thought nothing of it. She was considered the greatest of her time and more than capable of coping with the situation at hand. But there were those who knew her best, and saw her hurt, saw the mighty wounds she bore and knew that the situation was more dire than could be imagined.
When they finally realised, rich and poor alike fled. Class and money had no bearing in the attempts to disassociate themselves from her. She grew angry. She had carried them gallantly and now they would desert her in her time of need. She knew the end was near, and she swore her revenge. She would take as many with her as she could. In her final throws of life, within two minutes, from 2.18 am to 2.20 am she took 1523 souls as companions.
When the Carpathia steamed into the area some hours later, she was gone.