Krakatit by Karel Čapek

The end of everything. It was almost a relief, at least something certain and restful, and Prokop entered into the fact with his usual thoroughness. Good, it's over. There's nothing to fear now. She remained away on purpose. That's enough, that slap in the face is enough; that's the end. He sat in an armchair, incapable of getting up, continuing to intoxicate himself with his humiliation. A servant who had been given the sack. She was shameless, proud, heartless. She had given him up for one of her admirers. Well, it was over; all the better.

Every time he heard a step in the passage Prokop raised his head in excited anticipation, the existence of which he would not admit to himself. Perhaps it was a letter. No, nothing. She didn't think him worth even an apology. It was the end.