SISTER CLARY,

I wish you would not trouble me with any more of your letters. You had

always a knack at writing; and depended upon making every one do what you

would when you wrote. But your wit and folly have undone you. And now,

as all naughty creatures do, when they can't help themselves, you come

begging and praying, and make others as uneasy as yourself.

When I wrote last to you, I expected that I should not be at rest.

And so you'd creep on, by little and little, till you'll want to be

received again.

But you only hope for forgiveness and a blessing, you say. A blessing

for what, sister Clary? Think for what!--However, I read your letter to

my father and mother.

I won't tell you what my father said--one who has the true sense you

boast to have of your misdeeds, may guess, without my telling you, what a

justly-incensed father would say on such an occasion.

My poor mother--O wretch! what has not your ungrateful folly cost my poor

mother!--Had you been less a darling, you would not, perhaps, have been

so graceless: But I never in my life saw a cockered favourite come to

good.

My heart is full, and I can't help writing my mind; for your crimes have

disgraced us all; and I am afraid and ashamed to go to any public or

private assembly or diversion: And why?--I need not say why, when your

actions are the subjects either of the open talk, or of the affronting

whispers, of both sexes at all such places.

Upon the whole, I am sorry I have no more comfort to send you: but I find

nobody willing to forgive you.

I don't know what time may do for you; and when it is seen that your

penitence is not owing more to disappointment than to true conviction:

for it is too probable, Miss Clary, that, had not your feather-headed

villain abandoned you, we should have heard nothing of these moving

supplications; nor of any thing but defiances from him, and a guilt

gloried in from you. And this is every one's opinion, as well as that of

Your afflicted sister,

ARABELLA HARLOWE.

I send this by a particular hand, who undertakes to give it you or leave

it for you by to-morrow night.

Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 7 · 第 169 / 191 题