ABSTRACT
There are scenes of guilt it would be horrible to paint – there are hours of agony it is impossible to describe! All sympathy recedes from triumphant vicea and the kindest heart burns with indignation at the bare recital of unpunished crime. By night, by day, the tortures of remorse pursued Lady Avondale. In a husband’s presence, she trembled; from a parent’s tenderness she turned with affected coldness; her children, she durst not look upon. To the throne of heaven, she no longer offered up one prayer;b upon a sleepless bed, visions of horror distracted her fancy; and when, at break of day, a deep and heavy slumber fell on her, instead of relieving a weary spirit, feverish dreams and maddening apprehensions disturbed her rest. Glenarvon had entirely / possessed himself of her imagination.
