But I was grateful, I was on fire with gratitude, to one who had been good to me, who had been better to me than I could have dreamed of an angel, who had come into the darkness of my prison like sunrise.

The man Goguelat insulted her.

O, he had insulted me often, it was his favourite pastime, and he might insult me as he pleased--for who was I?
But with that lady it was different.

I could never forgive myself if I had let it pass.

And we fought, and he fell, and I have no remorse.' I waited anxiously for some reply.