I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own, than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.
I must go, uncertain of my fate; A word, a look will be enough to decide wether I enter your father's house this evening or never.