***

TO MR. LOVELACE

I will not see you.  I cannot see you.  I have no directions to give you.  Let Providence decide for me as it pleases.

The more I reflect upon your vileness, your ungrateful, your barbarous vileness, the more I am exasperated against you.

You are the last person whose judgment I will take upon what is or is not carried too far in matters of decency.

’Tis grievous to me to write, or even to think of you at present.  Urge me no more then.  Once more, I will not see you.  Nor care I, now you have made me vile to myself, what other people think of me.

***

TO MRS. LOVELACE

Again, Madam, I remind you of your promise:  and beg leave to say, I insist upon the performance of it.

Remember, dearest creature, that the fault of a blameable person cannot warrant a fault in one more perfect.  Overniceness may be underniceness!

I cannot reproach myself with any thing that deserves this high resentment.

I own that the violence of my passion for you might have carried me beyond fit bounds—­but that your commands and adjurations had power over me at such a moment, I humbly presume to say, deserves some consideration.

You enjoin me not to see you for a week.  If I have not your pardon before Captain Tomlinson comes to town, what shall I say to him?

I beg once more your presence in the dining-room.  By my soul, Madam, I must see you.

I want to consult you about the license, and other particulars of great importance.  The people below think us married; and I cannot talk to you upon such subjects with the door between us.

For Heaven’s sake, favour me with your presence for a few minutes:  and I will leave you for the day.

If I am to be forgiven, according to your promise, the earlier forgiveness will be most obliging, and will save great pain to yourself, as well as to

Your truly contrite and afflicted
Lovelace.

***

TO MR. LOVELACE

The more you tease me, the worse it will be for you.

Time is wanted to consider whether I ever should think of you at all.

At present, it is my sincere wish, that I may never more see your face.

All that can afford you the least shadow of favour from me, arises from the hoped-for reconciliation with my real friends, not my Judas protector.

I am careless at present of consequences.  I hate myself:  And who is it I have reason to value?—­Not the man who could form a plot to disgrace his own hopes, as well as a poor friendless creature, (made friendless by himself,) by insults not to be thought of with patience.

***

TO MRS. LOVELACE