"Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. She was powerless to move from her chair. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. And here he was first visited by that genius which, in his subsequent career, prompted him to so many bold and successful attempts.
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