My husband neglects me, so much cannot have escaped your eagle eye.

He is twice my age, and he thinks more of you, more of Councillor Von Dessauer, more of his horse than of me, Ysolinde of Plassenburg.

And I was made to be loved and to love.

How much of either, think you, have I ever known?
The true lot of a woman shut to me, the sweet love of man and woman wiled from me, even the communion of the spirit forbidden.

I might as lief carry a wizened nut-kernel within my brain-pan as a thinking soul, for all that any one cares.