You have killed yourself.

Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you--they'll damn you.

You loved me--then what _right_ had you to leave me?
What right--answer me--for the poor fancy you felt for Linton?
Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, _you_, of your own will, did it.

I have not broken your heart--_you_ have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.

So much the worse for me that I am strong.