He worked himself up till he groaned aloud, repeated over and over again “Nounoune”, to make himself believe he was frantic. But he fell silent, ashamed, for he knew very well that he did not need to be frantic to pick up the little flat revolver from the table.
Colette, The Last of Chéri, translated by Roger Senhouse, p. 284.
Spoiler alert! I hate that Chéri, like The Princess Casamassima, paints social-sexual-political crisis so beautifully, and then has the protagonist resolve things through suicide. Hate it.
