I was carried to the next town: fever succeeded to convulsions and faintings, & for some weeks my unhappy spirit hovered on the very verge of death.

But life was yet strong within me; I recovered: nor did it a little aid my returning health that my recollections were at first vague, and that I was too weak to feel any violent emotion.

I often said to myself, my father is dead.

He loved me with a guilty passion, and stung by remorse and despair he killed himself.

Why is it that I feel no horror?
Are these circumstances not dreadful?
Is it not enough that I shall never more meet the eyes of my beloved father; never more hear his voice; no caress, no look?
All cold, and stiff, and dead! Alas! I am quite callous: the night I was out in was fearful and the cold rain that fell about my heart has acted like the waters of the cavern of Antiparos[43] and has changed it to stone.