es?"

"But can I calm those sufferings? If he could distinguish my voice, or
if only a look of recognition answered my sorrowing glance! But no. Oh,
my lord, it is impossible for such as have never seen them to form an
idea of those frightful paroxysms, in which every sense is suspended,
and the unfortunate sufferer merely recovers from his frenzy to fall
into a sort of sullen dejection! When my dear child experiences one of
these attacks, it almost breaks my heart to see her tender frame
twisted, stiffened, and distorted, by the dreadful convulsions which
accompany it. Still, she is my own, my beloved infant, and, when I see
her bitter agonies, my hatred and aversion to her father are increased
an hundredfold. But, when my poor child becomes calmer, so does my
irritation against my husband subside also; and then--ah, then--the
natural tenderness of my heart makes my angry feelings give place to a
species of sorrow and pity for him. Yet surely I did not marry at only
seventeen years of age merely to experience the alternations of hatred
and painful commiseration, and to weep over a frail and sickly infant,
whom, after all, I may not be permitted to rear. And, as regards this
beloved object of my incessant prayers, permit me, my lord, to
anticipate a reproach I doubtless deserve, and which you would be
unwilling to make. My daughter, young as she is, is capable of
interesting my affections and fully occupying my heart; but the love she
inspires is so cruelly mixed with present anguish and future
apprehensions, that my tenderness for my child invariably ends in tears
and bitter grief. When I am with her, my heart is torn with agony, a
heavy, crushing weight presses on my heart at the thoughts of her
hopeless, suffering state. Not all the fondest devices of a mother's
love can overcome a malady pronounced by all our faculty as incurable.
Thus, then, by way of relief and refuge from the atmosphere of
wretchedness which surrounded me, I had pictured to myself the
possibility of finding calm and repose for my troubled spirit in an
attachment, so vain, so empty, that--But I have been deceived a second
time, most unworthily deceived; and there is now nothing left for me but
to resign myself to the gloom and misery of the life my husband's want
of candour has entailed upon me. But tell me, my lord, is it such an
existence as I was justified in expecting when I bestowed my hand on M.
d'Harville? And am I alone to blame for those