Aye, I might die my soul with falsehood untill I had quite hid its native colour.

Oh, beloved father! Accept the pure heart of your unhappy daughter; permit me to join you unspotted as I was or you will not recognize my altered semblance.

As grief might change Constance[47] so would deceit change me untill in heaven you would say, "This is not my child"-- My father, to be happy both now and when again we meet I must fly from all this life which is mockery to one like me.

In solitude only shall I be myself; in solitude I shall be thine.
Alas! I even now look back with disgust at my artifices and contrivances by which, after many painful struggles, I effected my retreat.

I might enter into a long detail of the means I used, first to secure myself a slight maintenance for the remainder of my life, and afterwards to ensure the conviction of my death: I might, but I will not.