I think of--of him at all times, and I try to recall his face, and the tones of his voice until, Cousin Malcolm, I tell you I am almost mad.

I call upon the Holy Virgin hour by hour to pity me; but she is pure, and cannot know what I feel.

I hate and loathe myself.

To what am I coming?
Where will it all end?
Yet I can do nothing to save myself.

I am powerless against this terrible feeling.