He has done his worst, and in doing it--remember his letter--in doing it, I say, has poisoned his own young life already.

In that Babel called Paris he does but reel from one pleasure to another.

But how long can that last?
Do you not see, as I see, that the day must come when, sickened and loathing all this folly he will deem himself the most wretched soul on earth, and look about him for the firm shore as a sailor does who is tossed about in a leaking ship at sea?
Then will he call to mind the past, his childhood and youth, his pure love and yours.

Then you yourself, you, Ann, will be the island haven for which he will long.

Then--aye, child, it is so, you will be the only creature that may help him; and if you really crave to create happiness--if your love is as true as--not so long ago--you declared it to be, on your knees before me and with scalding tears, he, and not Master Peter must be the first on whom you should carry out your day-dreams--for I know not what other name to give to such vain imaginings." At this Ann sobbed aloud and wrung her hands, crying: "But he cast me off, sold me for gold and silver.