My heart was bleeding as I thought of you; but my conscience is at rest, and I did nothing that could render me unworthy of your esteem.

You cannot refuse it to me, unless you believe that the confession I have just made is untrue; but you would be both mistaken and unjust.

Had I made up my mind to sacrifice myself and to grant favours which love alone ought to obtain, I might have got rid of the treacherous wretch within one hour, but death seemed preferable to such a dreadful expedient.

Could I in any way suppose that you were outside of my door, exposed to the wind and to the snow?
Both of us were deserving of pity, but my misery was still greater than yours.

All these fearful circumstances were written in the book of fate, to make me lose my reason, which now returns only at intervals, and I am in constant dread of a fresh attack of those awful convulsions.