O there he is! said she, and threw her apron over her face—­I cannot see him!—­I cannot look upon him!—­Begone, begone! touch me not!—­

For I took her struggling hand, beseeching her to be pacified; and assuring her, that I would make all up with her upon her own terms and wishes.

Base man! said the violent lady, I have no wishes, but never to behold you more!  Why must I be thus pursued and haunted?  Have you not made me miserable enough already?—­Despoiled of all succour and help, and of every friend, I am contented to be poor, low, and miserable, so I may live free from your persecutions.

Miss Rawlins stared at me [a confident slut this Miss Rawlins, thought I]:  so did Mrs. Moore.  I told you so! whispering said I, turning to the women; shaking my head with a face of great concern and pity; and then to my charmer, My dear creature, how you rave!  You will not easily recover from the effects of this violence.  Have patience, my love.  Be pacified; and we will coolly talk this matter over:  for you expose yourself, as well as me:  these ladies will certainly think you have fallen among robbers, and that I am the chief of them.

So you are! so you are! stamping, her face still covered [she thought of Wednesday night, no doubt]; and, sighing as if her heart were breaking, she put her hand to her forehead—­I shall be quite distracted!

I will not, my dearest love, uncover your face.  You shall not look upon me, since I am so odious to you.  But this is a violence I never thought you capable of.

And I would have pressed her hand, as I held it, with my lips; but she drew it from me with indignation.

Unhand me, Sir, said she.  I will not be touched by you.  Leave me to my fate.  What right, what title, have you to persecute me thus?

What right, what title, my dear!—­But this is not a time—­I have a letter from Captain Tomlinson—­here it is—­offering it to her—­

I will receive nothing from your hands—­tell me not of Captain Tomlinson—­tell me not of any body—­you have no right to invade me thus—­ once more leave me to my fate—­have you not made me miserable enough?

I touched a delicate string, on purpose to set her in such a passion before the women, as might confirm the intimation I had given of a phrensical disorder.

What a turn is here!—­Lately so happy—­nothing wanting but a reconciliation between you and your friends!—­That reconciliation in such a happy train—­shall so slight, so accidental an occasion be suffered to overturn all our happiness?

She started up with a trembling impatience, her apron falling from her indignant face—­now, said she, that thou darest to call the occasion slight and accidental, and that I am happily out of thy vile hands, and out of a house I have reason to believe as vile, traitor and wretch as thou art, I will venture to cast an eye upon thee—­and Oh! that it were in my power, in mercy to my sex, to look thee first into shame and remorse, and then into death!