_You_ didn't see that dreadful death-struck look of the poor girl.

I declare to you I turn cold when I think of my wife! I can't go to her when I ought to go--I send the servants into her room.

My children, too--my dear good children--it's enough to break one's heart--think of their being brought up by a mother who could say what she said, and do--What will they see, I ask you what will they see, if she gets Carmina back in the house, and treats that sweet young creature as she _will_ treat her?
There were times last night, when I thought of going away for ever--Lord knows where--and taking the girls with me.

What am I talking about?
I had something to say, and I don't know what it is; I don't know my own self! There, there; I'll keep quiet.

It's my poor stupid head, I suppose--hot, Mool, burning hot.