"My brother in the interval was dead，and at the end of the four years my father died too. I was rich enough now- yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross，impure，depraved I ever saw，was associated with mine，and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the doctors now discovered that my wife was mad- her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity. Jane，you don"t like my narrative; you look almost sick- shall I defer the rest to another day?"

"No，sir，finish it now; I pity you- I do earnestly pity you."

"pity，Jane，from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute，which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native to callous，selfish hearts; it is a hybrid，egotistical pain at hearing of woes，crossed with ignorant contempt for those who have endured them. But that is not your pity，Jane; it is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this moment- with which your eyes are now almost overflowing- with which your heart is heaving- with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity，my darling，is the suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine passion. I accept it，Jane; let the daughter have free advent- my arms wait to receive her."

"Now，sir，proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?"