She stood astonished and silent for a few moments.

But recovering herself, and turning from her to the window, she wrung her hands [the cursed Sally showed me how!] and lifting them up—­Now, Lovelace:  now indeed do I think I ought to forgive thee!—­But who shall forgive Clarissa Harlowe!——­O my sister!—­O my brother!—­Tender mercies were your cruelties to this!

After a pause, her handkerchief drying up her falling tears, she turned to Sally:  Now, have I noting to do but acquiesce—­only let me say, that if this aunt of your’s, this Mrs. Sinclair, or this man, this Mr. Lovelace, come near me; or if I am carried to the horrid house; (for that, I suppose, is the design of this new outrage;) God be merciful to the poor Clarissa Harlowe!——­Look to the consequence!——­Look, I charge you, to the consequence!

The vile wretch told her, it was not designed to carry her any where against her will:  but, if it were, they should take care not to be frighted again by a penknife.

She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and was silent—­and went to the farthest corner of the room, and, sitting down, threw her handkerchief over her face.

Sally asked her several questions; but not answering her, she told her, she would wait upon her by-and-by, when she had found her speech.

She ordered the people to press her to eat and drink.  She must be fasting—­nothing but her prayers and tears, poor thing!—­were the merciless devil’s words, as she owned to me.—­Dost think I did not curse her?

She went away; and, after her own dinner, returned.

The unhappy lady, by this devil’s account of her, then seemed either mortified into meekness, or to have made a resolution not to be provoked by the insults of this cursed creature.

Sally inquired, in her presence, whether she had eat or drank any thing; and being told by the woman, that she could not prevail upon her to taste a morsel, or drink a drop, she said, this is wrong, Miss Harlowe!  Very wrong!—­Your religion, I think, should teach you, that starving yourself is self-murder.

She answered not.

The wretch owned she was resolved to make her speak.

She asked if Mabell should attend her, till it were seen what her friends would do for her in discharge of the debt?  Mabell, said she, had not yet earned the clothes you were so good as to give her.

Am I not worthy an answer, Miss Harlowe?

I would answer you (said the sweet sufferer, without any emotion) if I knew how.

I have ordered pen, ink, and paper, to be brought you, Miss Harlowe.  There they are.  I know you love writing.  You may write to whom you please.  Your friend, Miss Howe, will expect to hear from you.

I have no friend, said she, I deserve none.

Rowland, for that’s the officer’s name, told her, she had friends enow to pay the debt, if she would write.

She would trouble nobody; she had no friends; was all they could get from her, while Sally staid:  but yet spoken with a patience of spirit, as if she enjoyed her griefs.