It was not my heart that conceived the thought; it was not I who really did the deed.

I had no pangs of conscience, no feeling of remorse, and yet the thought that I had hurried a man into eternity was horrible.
I wandered in the plantation for hours, brooding, thinking, despairing.
No pen can describe what I felt, no words can convey to the mind the thoughts and pains of my mind and heart.

Never did I love Miss Forrest so much, never was Voltaire's villainy so real; and yet I was to lose her, and that man--a fiend in human form--was to wed her.

I could do nothing.

He had paralyzed my energies.