write, and tell me that what I saw in vision was a lie, an
abominable lie! Nay, you do not love Mr. Harding. You will not marry
him; surely you will not. Oh! to be left here alone, never to see you
again--I could not bear it, I should die. You will not leave me to die,
Alice dear, you will not; write and tell me you will not. And what
grieves me doubly is that it must seem to you, dear, that I am only
thinking of myself. I am not; I think of you, I wish to save you from
what must be a life of misery and, worse still, of degradation; for
every man is a degradation when he approaches a woman. I know you
couldn't bear up against this; you are too refined, too pure--I can
sympathize with you. I know, poor little cripple though I be, the
horrors of married life. I know what men are--you smile your own kind,
sweet smile; I see it as I write; but you are wrong: I know nothing of
men in particular, but I know what the sex is--I know nothing of
individuals, but I know what life is. The very fact of being forced to
live apart has helped me to realize how horrible life is, and how the
passions of men make it vile and abominable. All their tender little
words and attentions are but lust in disguise. I hate them! I could
whip, I could beat, I would torture them; and when I had done my worst I
should not have done enough to punish them for the wrongs they have done
to my sex.

'I know, Alice dear, I am writing violently, that I am letting my temper
get the better of me, and this is very wrong; you have often told me it
is very wrong; but I cannot help it, my darling, when I think of the
danger you are in. I cannot tell you how, but I do know you are in
danger; something, some instinct has put me in communication with you:
there are moments when I see you, yes, see you sitting by that man--I
see you now:--the scene is a long blue drawing-room all aglow with gold
mirrors and wax candles--he is sitting by you, I see you smiling upon
him--my blood boils, Alice--I fear I am going mad; my head drops on the
table, and I strive to shut out the odious sight, but I cannot, I
cannot, I cannot. . . .

'I am calmer now: you will forgive me, Alice dear? I know I am wrong to
write to you in this way, but there are moments when I realize things
with such horrible vividness that I am, as it were, maddened with pain.
Sometimes I awake in the night, and then I see life in all its hideous
nakedness, revealed, as it were, by a sudden flash of lightning