I was guilty, it seems, of going to church, said the indignant charmer; and without the company of a man, whose choice it would not have been to go, had I not gone—­I was guilty of desiring to have the whole Sunday to myself, after I had obliged you, against my will, at a play; and after you had detained me (equally to my dislike) to a very late hour over-night.—­These were my faults:  for these I was to be punished:  I was to be compelled to see you, and to be terrified when I did see you, by the most shocking ill humour that was ever shown to a creature in my circumstances, and not bound to bear it.  You have pretended to find free fault with my father’s temper, Mr. Lovelace:  but the worst that he ever showed after marriage, was not in the least to be compared to what you have shown twenty times beforehand.—­And what are my prospects with you, at the very best?—­My indignation rises against you, Mr. Lovelace, while I speak to you, when I recollect the many instances, equally ungenerous and unpolite, of your behaviour to one whom you have brought into distress—­and I can hardly bear you in my sight.

She turned from me, standing up; and, lifting up her folded hands, and charming eyes swimming in tears, O my father, said the inimitable creature, you might have spared your heavy curse, had you known how I have been punished ever since my swerving feet led me out of your garden-doors to meet this man!—­Then, sinking into her chair, a burst of passionate tears forced their way down her glowing cheeks.

My dearest life, [taking her still folded hands in mine,] who can bear an invocation so affecting, though so passionate?

And, as I hope to live, my nose tingled, as I once, when a boy, remember it did (and indeed once more very lately) just before some tears came into my eyes; and I durst hardly trust my face in view of her’s.

What have I done to deserve this impatient exclamation?—­Have I, at any time, by word, by deeds, by looks, given you cause to doubt my honour, my reverence, my adoration, I may call it, of your virtues?  All is owing to misapprehension, I hope, on both sides.  Condescend to clear up but your part, as I will mine, and all must speedily be happy.—­Would to Heaven I loved that Heaven as I love you! and yet, if I doubted a return in love, let me perish if I should know how to wish you mine!—­Give me hope, dearest creature, give me but hope, that I am your preferable choice!—­ Give me but hope, that you hate me not:  that you do not despise me.

O Mr. Lovelace, we have been long enough together to be tired of each other’s humours and ways; ways and humours so different, that perhaps you ought to dislike me, as much as I do you.—­I think, I think, that I cannot make an answerable return to the value you profess for me.  My temper is utterly ruined.  You have given me an ill opinion of all mankind; of yourself in particular:  and withal so bad a one of myself, that I shall never be able to look up, having utterly and for ever lost all that self-complacency, and conscious pride, which are so necessary to carry a woman through this life with tolerable satisfaction to herself.