He barely managed to free his foot before she fell on her side, breathing heavily and making vain attempts to rise with her slender, sweaty neck, fluttering on the ground at his feet like a wounded bird. The awkward movement Vronsky had made had broken her back. But he understood that much later. Now he saw only that Makhotin was quickly drawing away, while he, swaying, stood alone on the muddy, unmmoving ground, and before him, gasping heavily, lay Frou Frou, her head turned to him, looking at him with her lovely eye. Still not understanding what had happened, Vronsky pulled the horse by the reins. She again thrashed all over like a fish, creaking the wings of the saddle, freed her front legs, but, unable to lift her hindquarters, immediately staggered and fell on her side again. His face disfigured by passion, pale, his lower jaw trembling, Vronsky kicked her in the stomach with his heel again and started pulling at the reins. She did not move but, burying her nose in the ground, merely looked at her master with her speaking eye. [...] To his dismay, he felt that he was whole and unhurt. The horse had broken her back and they decided to shoot her.
I find meaning in it. I'll let you decide why.
