himself to
be so
entirely
the vane
of a
passion
enervated
the
feminine
instinct
for
punctilios.
“I am
beyond
myself
about
this, and
am mad,”
he said.
“I am no
stoic at
all to be
supplicating
here; but
I do
supplicate
to you. I
wish you
knew what
is in me
of
devotion
to you;
but it is
impossible,
that. In
bare human
mercy to a
lonely
man, don’t
throw me
off now!”
“I don’t
throw you
off –
indeed,
how can I?
I never
had you.”
In her
