LETTER 262: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD ESQ.

Sunday Afternoon, 6 o’Clock (June 18.)

I went out early this morning, and returned not till just now; when I was informed, that my Beloved, in my absence, had taken it into her head to attempt to get away.

She tripp’d down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, her hood on; and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair saw her.

Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the street-door, be pleased to let me know whither you are going?

Who has a right to controul me? was the word.

I have, Madam, by order of your spouse: And, kemboing her arms, as she owned, I desire you will be pleased to walk up again.

She would have spoken; but could not: And, bursting into tears, turned back, and went up to her chamber: And Dorcas was taken to task for suffering her to be in the passage before she was seen.

This shews, as we hoped last night, that she is recovering her charming intellects.

Dorcas says, she was visible to her, but once before, the whole day; and then seemed very solemn and sedate.

I will endeavour to see her. It must be in her own chamber, I suppose; for she will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our sex give me over the modesty of hers, if she be recover’d! — I, the most confident of men: She, the most delicate of women. Sweet soul! methinks, I have have┬áher before me: Her face averted: Speech lost in sighs—Abash’d—Conscious —What a triumphant aspect will this give me, when I gaze in her downcast countenance!

 

This moment Dorcas tells me, she believes she is coming to find me out. She asked her after me: And Dorcas left her, drying her red-swoln eyes at her glass; [No design of moving me by her tears!] sighing too sensibly for my courage. But to what purpose have I gone thus far, if I pursue not my principal end? —Niceness must be a little abated. She knows the worst. That she cannot fly me; that she must see me; and that I can look her into a sweet confusion; are circumstances greatly in my favour. What can she do, but rave and exclaim? I am used to raving and exclaiming—But, if recovered, I shall see how she behaves upon this our first sensible interview, after what she has suffered.

Here she comes!—

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