What a terrible torture this is! To be loved under her name; under her name to receive the vows of love that yet belong to me only--to me alone! For he loves me, me exclusively.
They are my lips that he kisses, my form that he embraces; to me are addressed his words and his letters; and it is I that reply to them.

He loves me, me only, and yet he puts no faith in me.

I am nothing to him, naught but a lifeless image, like other women.

This he has told me; and I did not become frenzied; and I had the cruel energy to pass off the tears wrung from me by despair, for tears of rapture.

Oh, detestable, horrible mockery of fate--to be what I am not, and not to be what I am!" And with a shrill cry of agony she tore her hair, and with her fist smote upon her breast, and wept and moaned aloud.
She heard naught; she saw naught; she felt naught but her inexpressible and despairing anguish.
She did not once tremble for herself; she thought not at all of this--that she would be lost if she were found in this place.
And yet at the other side of the room a door had opened, softly and noiselessly, and a man had entered.
He shut the door behind him and walked up to Lady Jane, who still lay on the floor.