Friday, Aug. 11. 

‘Tis a cruel alternative to be either forced to see you, or to write to you. But a will of my own has been long denied me; and to avoid a greater evil, nay, now I may say, the greatest, I write.


Were I capable of disguising or concealing any real sentiments, I might safely, I dare say, give you the remote hope you request, and yet keep all my resolutions. But I must tell you, Sir; it becomes my character to tell you; that, were I to live more years than perhaps I may weeks, and there were not another man in the world, I could not, I would not, be yours.


There is no merit in performing a duty ;


Religion injoins me, not only to forgive injuries, but to return good for evil. It is all my consolation, and I bless God for giving me That, that I am now in such a state of mind, with regard to you, that I can chearfully obey its dictates. And accordingly I tell you, that, where-ever you go, I wish you happy. And in This I mean to include every good wish.


And now having, with great reluctance, I own, complied with one of your compulsatory alternatives, I expect the fruits of it.


Clarissa Harlowe.

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