I shall relate my tale therefore as if I wrote for strangers.

You have often asked me the cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable and unkind silence.

In life I dared not; in death I unveil the mystery.

Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear--the precious memorials of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude towards you:[5] your tears will fall on the words that record my misfortunes; I know they will--and while I have life I thank you for your sympathy.
But enough of this.

I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it.