I never intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, if
I could help it—O that I never had!
But tell me, of a truth, is Miss Howe really and truly ill?—Very
ill?—And is not her illness poison? And don’t you know who gave it to
her?
What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody (I cannot tell who) have done
to my poor head, you best know: but I shall never be what I was. My
head is gone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep
no more. Indeed I have had my full share; so it is no matter.
But, good now, Lovelace, don’t set Mrs. Sinclair upon me again.—I never
did her any harm. She so affrights me, when I see her!—Ever since—when
was it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, as
far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour—very likely—though
forced to let lodgings for a livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know
I pity her: but don’t let her come near me again—pray don’t!