By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanent
malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch
was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain
appeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me,
hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every
way to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not
whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal
education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to
punish me; but there it ever is--at all times--in all places--nor has
time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I
have travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements--tried
dissipation and distraction of every kind--all--all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I painted
an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me in
hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish the
effect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the
misery.

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps--that has made my life
a burthen--but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I have
suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless
torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an
unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs that
wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of
affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail
erring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless
remorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I
prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a
sign of his forgiveness, and let me die.--