I've thought of another bit. It's quite grim, but so emotional. It's from La Bete Humaine by Emile Zola. Flore has done something terrible and so she marches to her death:
"And once in the tunnel, on she walked, and walked, always forward. But this was not like the previous week, she was no longer afraid of turning round and forgetting which direction she was going in. Her head wasn't pounding with tunnel madness, that sudden moment of panic when everything-objects, time, space-becomes a blur amidst the thundering echoes and crushing sides of the vault. What did she care! She wasn't thinking rationally, she wasn't even thinking, she simply had this one fixed resolve: to walk, to walk straight ahead, for as long as no train came, and then still to walk, straight towards its headlamp, as soon as she saw it blazing through the darkness.
"Flore was nevertheless surprised, for she felt as though she had been walking along like this for hours. How distant it was, this death which she desired! She despaired for a moment at the idea that it might not come to her, that she might go on and on for miles and never meet it face to face. Her feet were growing tired. Would she have to sit down, to stretch out across the rails and wait for it? But that seemed unworthy; her instincts as a warrior virgin told her that she must keep on walking right to the end, that she must die standing. And when, far away in the distance, she saw the headlamp of the express, like a tiny lone star twinkling in an inky sky, her energy returned, pushing her forward once more. The train had not yet entered the tunnel, no sound heralded its approach; there was just this light, so bright and cheerful, which was growing and growing. Drawing herself up to her full height, like a lithe statue, and swinging along on her strong legs, she now lengthened her stride, but still without running, as though she were going to meet a friend and wanted to spare her some part of the journey. But the train had just entered the tunnel, and the dreadful roar was coming closer and closer, making the ground shake with a stormy blast of air; while the star had become an enormous eye, getting bigger and bigger, as though bursting from a socket of darkness. Then, in response to some mysterious prompting, perhaps in order to be quite alone at the moment of death, she emptied her pockets, without pausing in her stubborn, heroic stride, and deposited a whole collection of articles beside the track, a handkerchief, keys, some string, two knives; she even removed the scarf round her neck, and left her bodice unbuttoned, half hanging off her shoulders. The eye was turning into a brazier, into the mouth of a furnace spewing fire, and the panting breath of the monster was coming closer, already warm and moist, amidst a rumble of thunder that became more and more deafening. And on she strode, straight towards this furnace, so that the engine should not miss her, like a bewitched moth drawn to a flame. And in the horrendous impact of collision, at the moment of embrace, she drew herself up once more as though the fighter in her had wanted, in one last effort of resistance, to seize the colossus in her arms and hurl it to the ground. Her head had collided directly with the lamp, which went out."