"What have I done?
For God's sake, do not think that I blame you! I never have been so sorry for any one in my life as I have been for you--as I was for you from the first moment I saw you! I can see you now, as I first caught sight of you--weariness and depression in every line of your face--" I can bear no more.

At his last words, a pain like a knife, sharp to agony, runs through me.

It is the grain of truth in his wicked, lying words that gives them their sting.

I _was_ weary; I _was_ depressed; I _was_ bored.

I fling out my arms with a sudden gesture of despair, and then, throwing myself down on the ground, bury my face in a great moss cushion, and put my fingers in my ears.
"O my God!" I cry, writhing, "what _shall_ I do ?--how _can_ I bear it ?" After a moment or two I sit up.
"How _shameful_ of you!" I cry, bursting into a passion of tears.