Curse upon the Colonel, and curse upon the writer of the last Letter I received, and upon all the world! Thou to pretend to be as much interested in my Clarissa’s fate as myself! ‘Tis well for one of us, that this was not said to me, instead of written— Living or dying, she is mine—and only mine. Have I not earned her dearly? —Is not Damnation likely to be the purchase to me, tho’ a happy Eternity will be hers?

An eternal separation! O God! O God! —How can I bear that thought! —But yet there is Life! — Yet, therefore, Hope—Enlarge my Hope, and thou shalt be my good genius, and I will forgive thee everything.

For this last time—But it must not, shall not, be the last —Let me hear, the moment thou receivest this—what I am to be—For, at present, I am

The most miserable of Men. 

Rose at Knightsbridge, 5 o’Clock. 

    My fellow tells me, that thou art sending Mowbray and Tourville to me. I want them not. My soul’s sick of them, and of all the world; but most of myself. Yet, as they send me word they will come to me immediately, I will wait for them, and for thy next. O Belford! let it not be—But hasten it, hasten it, be what it may!

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