her　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？”

“Jane；　I　approached　the　verge　of　despair；　a　remnant　of　self…respect　was　all　that　intervened　between　me　and　the　gulf。　In　the　eyes　of　the　world；　I　was　doubtless　covered　with　grimy　dishonour；　but　I　resolved　to　be　clean　in　my　own　sight—and　to　the　last　I　repudiated　the　contamination　of　her　crimes；　and　wrenched　myself　from　connection　with　her　mental　defects。　Still；　society　associated　my　name　and　person　with　hers；　I　yet　saw　her　and　heard　her　daily：　something　of　her　breath　（faugh！）　mixed　with　the　air　I　breathed；　and　besides；　I　remembered　I　had　once　been　her　husband—that　recollection