Her father’s face was ashy white, and he held her in both his arms.

“I have done no worse, I have not disgraced you. But if you ask me whether I have loved him, or do love him, I tell you plainly, father, that it may be so. I don’t know.”

She took her hands suddenly from his shoulders, and pressed them both upon her side; while in her face, not like itself⁠—and in her figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by a last effort what she had to say⁠—the feelings long suppressed broke loose.

“This night, my husband being away, he has been with me, declaring himself my lover. This minute he expects me, for I could release myself of his presence by no other means. I do not know that I am sorry, I do not know that I am ashamed, I do not know that I am degraded in my own esteem. All that I know is, your philosophy and your teaching will not save me. Now, father, you have brought me to this. Save me by some other means!”