I do forgive thee, unhappy man; I do, from the bottom
of my soul. Repent, and another will forgive thee; another,
whom thou hast more cruelly wronged, more deliberately
scorned, than me. O, Randolph, Randolph—I
could weep tears of blood for thee. Nay—I would that
I were near thee, even at this moment, sick and weary
as I am, to comfort thee, in thy desolation. Even to
this, am I reduced;—the haughty and presumptuous woman
would kneel down before thee, Randolph; and wash
thy feet with her tears; and wipe them with her hair—
wert thou only, what thou hast appeared to her. I am
very ill—very—but I charge thee, not to move—Randolph,
I charge thee!—until thou hearest again from me.
It will be soon, very soon, if I have life left. I can
write no more, now. I am very faint; and thy terrible
letter is lying before me—my eyes are upon the close of
it—what mean you, Randolph; in mercy! tell me—what

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mean you. You would not, surely, add the destruction
of your own soul, your —. Farewell. I cannot
write another line—farewell.—But remember—I charge
you to await my next letter.