texts: My Lady Cosgrove's relationship with me was a singular one.  Her life was passed in a series of crack-brained sort of alternation between love and hatred for me.  We would quarrel for a fortnight, then we should be friends for a month together sometimes.  One day, I was joking her, and asking her whether she would take the water again, whether she had found another lover, and so forth.  She suddenly burst out into tears, and, after a while, said to me:
labels: Roderick, you know well enough that I have never loved but you!  Was I ever so wretched that a kind word from you did not make me happy? Ever so angry, but the least offer of good-will on your part did not bring me to your side?  Did I not give a sufficient proof of my affection for you in bestowing one of the finest fortunes of England upon you?  Have I repined or rebuked you for the way you have wasted it? No, I loved you too much and too fondly; I have always loved you. From the first moment I saw you, I saw your bad qualities, and trembled at your violence; but I could not help loving you.  I married you, though I knew I was sealing my own fate in doing so, and in spite of reason and duty.  What sacrifice do you want from me?  I am ready to make any, so you will but love me, or, if not, that at least, you will gently us me.