My father's fate is also clear to me, now. He wished to live for and perfect himself; and yet he had children whose love and affection he claimed. His death was one of the terrible consequences of the life he had led. That, however, does not make me innocent, and he dealt justly toward me.
I have no desire to offer excuses for anything I have done. I mean to be perfectly truthful. That is my only happiness, my only pride.
Your worth depends upon what you are; not upon what you have.
I have found the center about which my mind revolves.
During the last few days, it has seemed to me as if my father's terrible punishment had never been executed, as if it were only the guilty presentiment of my own imagination.
What has induced this sudden thought that will not leave me?