But something, too, I guessed of the heart of such a one as Roxalanne.

To the full I realized the pain and shame I should inflict upon her when my confession came; I realized, too, how the love of this dear child, so honourable and high of mind, must turn to contempt and scorn when I plucked away my mask, and let her see how poor a countenance I wore beneath.
And yet I drifted with the tide of things.

It was my habit so to drift, and the habit of a lifetime is not to be set at naught in a day by a resolve, however firm.

A score of times was I reminded that an evil is but increased by being ignored.

A score of times confession trembled on my lips, and I burned to tell her everything from its inception--the environment that had erstwhile warped me, the honesty by which I was now inspired--and so cast myself upon the mercy of her belief.
She might accept my story, and, attaching credit to it, forgive me the deception I had practised, and recognize the great truth that must ring out in the avowal of my love.