This is my husband's treasure returning to him.

We have to be burnt to come to our senses.

Janey--oh! you do well!--it was fiendish; old ballads, melodrama plays, I see they were built on men's deeds.

Janey, I could not believe it, I have to believe, it is forced down my throat;--that man, your husband, because he could not forgive my choosing Chillon, schemed for Chillon's ruin.

I could not believe it until I saw in the glass this disfigured wretch he has made of me.