He seemed struggling for utterance; but his struggles being fruitless, he shook his head and turned away from me.
My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent: "What," said I, "for heaven's sake, my friend, what is the matter ?" He started at the sound of my voice.

His looks, for a moment, became convulsed with an emotion very different from grief.

His accents were broken with rage.
"The matter--O wretch!--thus exquisitely fashioned--on whom nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height fallen! A ruin so complete--so unheard of!" His words were again choaked by emotion.

Grief and pity were again mingled in his features.

He resumed, in a tone half suffocated by sobs: "But why should I upbraid thee?
Could I restore to thee what thou hast lost; efface this cursed stain; snatch thee from the jaws of this fiend; I would do it.