That is all I feel, the death of my joy; I cannot yet think of them
that killed it.
To-night in my despair I cannot tell whether I love or hate them;
love them for what they were, or hate them for what they are.
_July 2d._--The day is hot and heavy; it suits me very well.
Yesterday we were nearly all day together. I remember how it was
with me when my mother died; I had sooner bear it again than my pain
of every day. To be with them, watching the growth of their terrible
love, that is murdering me, and yet to stay on, fearing a worse
agony. Their eyes shall never meet; I shall stay and watch them, if
I die for it.
Only thirteen days more and he is mine, and I can bear him from her.
Yesterday I thought, Shall I give him to her? But I am not generous.
It may be wicked, it may be cruel, but I, too, am living. Why should
I break my heart that theirs may be whole? No; he chose me for his
wife, he will not take his word from me. I know he loves her better,
but he will forget that, I shall make him so happy, I shall spoil
him so! Oh, yes, he will forget. For a year, perhaps, he will be
unhappy; then all will be well.
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