I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.--ALICE VAVASOR." She had tormented herself in writing this,--had so nearly driven herself distracted with attempts which she had destroyed, that she would not even read once to herself these last words. "He'll know it, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself as she sent the letter away from her.
Mr. Grey read it twice over, leaving the other letters unnoticed on the table by his tea-cup. He read it twice over, and the work of reading it was one to him of intense agony. Hitherto he had fed himself with hope. That Alice should have been brought to think of her engagement with him in a spirit of doubt and with a mind so troubled, that she had been inclined to attempt an escape from it, had been very grievous to him; but it had been in his mind a fantasy, a morbid fear of himself, which might be cured by time. He, at any rate, would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure. There had been one thing, however, which he most feared;--which he had chiefly feared, though he had forbidden himself to think that it could be probable, and this thing had now happened.

I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.
"Alice Vavasor."
She had tormented herself in writing this. "He'll know, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself.
Mr. Grey read it twice. The work of reading it was one of intense agony. Until now he had fed himself with hope. That Alice should have thought of her engagement with doubt had been very grievous to him; but he had considered it a fantasy which might be cured by time. He would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure. There had been one thing, however, which he feared; and this thing had now happened.
