St.James was the fondest, the kindest, the tenderest--O my God! must I add--the falsest of human beings?
I did not love him then--I worshipped, I adored him.

I have told you that my childish imagination was fed by wild, impassioned romances, and I had made to myself an ideal image, round which, like the maid of France, I hung the garlands of fancy, and knelt before its shrine.
"Whatever has been my after fate, I have known the felicity of loving in all its length and breadth and strength.

And he, too, loved me passionately, devotedly.

Strong indeed must have been the love that triumphed over principle, honor, and truth, that broke the most sacred of human ties, and dared the vengeance of retributive Heaven.
"St.James was an artist.

He was not dependent entirely on his genius for his subsistence, though his fortune was not large enough to enable him to live in splendid indolence.