grimly did.

Do you know, you are keeping me on the rack, literally on the rack,
and my flesh and blood do not seem to be able to stand it--my body
seems to be the organ that first fails me, my brain is never so
tired as my body. I love to think that you are not less merciful to
me than you would be to yourself, I feel that you could not have
used more cruel whips to yourself. Do you suppose that any disgust,
scolding, or malediction to me could, as your wife, hurt me, as your
doubt of me hurts me now?

And I just begin to read your letter again, and I tell you, you are
a fool. You say you do not know whether you could love any one as
you ought--well, I, with all my weakness, know whether _I_ can love,
and I love you a thousand times more than you have given me cause
to. And you are so _hungry!_ Will you always starve because you are
blind? As to being _satisfied,_ how could you be? But you say you
will love me as much as I deserve. How much do I deserve--do you
know? I sometimes cry out against you and long to get hold of you.
If you have genius, why doesn't it give you some inkling whether you
are a man with a heart, not only a stupid boy? And then I see it all
plainly, or think I do, and know that you are trying so hard to be
right towards us, because you think you love me the way other people
love; and you know if I am weak, it would degrade your genius; and
you cannot be sure of my character or strength. You cannot know
whether I realize the life I am selecting--you have found it hard,
and you have every reason to think that I will find it ten times
harder; and you love me in a way that is not the highest,--but yet
you love me enough, thank God, to tell me the whole truth!