But that is not your pity, Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this moment--with which your eyes are now almost overflowing--with which your heart is heaving--with which your hand is trembling in mine.

Your pity, my darling, is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion.

I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent--my arms wait to receive her." "Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad ?" "Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was all that intervened between me and the gulf.

In the eyes of the world, I was doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in my own sight--and to the last I repudiated the contamination of her crimes, and wrenched myself from connection with her mental defects.
Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I yet saw her and heard her daily: something of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I breathed; and besides, I remembered I had once been her husband--that recollection was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I knew that while she lived I could never be the husband of another and better wife; and, though five years my senior (her family and her father had lied to me even in the particular of her age), she was likely to live as long as I, being as robust in frame as she was infirm in mind.

Thus, at the age of twenty-six, I was hopeless.
"One night I had been awakened by her yells--( since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up)--it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurricanes of those climates.