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Barford Abbey by Susannah Minific Gunning
page 113 of 205 (55%)

_What_, had it been _real_ as it was _visionary_, would have drove me to
madness.--I dreamt, Miss Warley,--I dreamt every thing I was possess'd
of was torn from me;--but now--_and here stopt_.

Well, my Lord, and did not the pleasure of being undeceiv'd overpay all
the pain which you had been deceiv'd into?

No, my angel!--_Why does he call me his angel?_

Why, no: I have such a sinking, such a load on my mind, to reflect it is
possible,--only possible it might happen, that, upon my word, it has
been almost too much for me.

Ah! my Lord, you are certainly wrong to anticipate evils; they come fast
enough, one need not run to meet them:--besides, if your Lordship had
been in reality that very unfortunate creature, you dreamt you were, for
no rank or degree is proof against the caprice of Fortune,--was nothing
to be preserv'd entire?--Fortune can require only what she gave:
fortitude, peace, and resignation, are not her gifts.

Oh! Miss Warley, you mistake: it was not riches I fancied myself
dispossess'd of;--it was, oh my God!--what my peace, my _very_ soul is
center'd in!--and his eyes turn'd round with so wild a stare, that
really I began to suspect his head.

I trembled so I could scarce reach the dressing-room, though just at the
door.--The moment I turn'd from him, he flew like lightning over the
stairs; and soon after, I saw him walking with Sir James on the terrace.
By their gestures I could discover their conversation was not a common
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