She could love John and injure me, but she could not be content without the approval of the world.

The young farmer was worthy of love, but he was not rich enough, nor grand enough, nor was his soiled name fitted for the spoilt child of wealth.

She could steal away my treasure without enriching herself--could destroy the peace of two minds, without creating any contentment for herself out of the wreck.

"Poor John!" I thought, "your chances of happiness are no better than my own, even though you have paid a dishonourable price for them." And I hated her after that..