Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. It’s a lake among precipices, and there is a little inn where we can stay, and sit and eat our dinner at a pleasant table that looks upon the lake. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. To-morrow they will know the truth. Heaven forbid. I'll try to fill in the gaps. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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