She heard me somewhat reluctantly, but when I had finished her face cleared, and without any preamble she commenced her story.
I never remember that recital without pain.

It positively wrung my heart to listen to her.

I had heard the outline of her sad story from her sister's lips, but it had lacked colour; it had been a simple statement of facts, and no more.
But now Phoebe's passionate words seemed to clothe it with power; the very sight of the ghastly and almost distracted face on the pillow gave a miserable pathos to the story.

It was in vain to check excitement while the unhappy creature poured out the history of her wrongs: the old old story, of a credulous woman's heart being trampled upon and tortured by an unworthy lover, was enacted again before me.
'I just worshipped the ground he walked on, and he threw me aside like a broken toy,' she said over and over again.

'And the worst of it is that, villain as he is, I cannot unlove him, though I am that mad with him sometimes that I could almost murder him.' 'Love is strong as death, and jealousy is cruel as the grave,' I muttered, half to myself, but she overheard me.
'Ay, that is just true,' she returned eagerly: 'there are times when I hate Robert and Nancy and would like to haunt them.