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Barford Abbey by Susannah Minific Gunning
page 117 of 205 (57%)
freedom is depleasing;--but don't take your hand away; for I was still
endeavouring to get it away from him.

Yes, my angel, I will call you _Miss Warley_.

Talk not at this rate, my Lord: it is a kind of conversation I do not,
nor wish to understand.

I see, madam, I am to be unhappy;--I know you have great reason to
condemn me:--my whole behaviour, since I first saw you, has been one
riddle.

Pray, my Lord, forbear this subject.

No! if I never see you more, Miss Warley,--this is my wish that you
think the worst of me that appearances admit;--think I have basely
wish'd to distress you.

Distress me, my Lord?

Think so, I beseech you, if I never return.--What would the misfortune
be of falling low, even to the most abject in your opinion, compared
with endangering the happiness of her whole peace is my ardent
pursuit?--If I fail, I only can tell the cause:--you shall never be
acquainted with it;--for should you regard me even with pity,--cool
pity,--it would be taking the dagger from my own breast, and planting it
in yours.

Ah! my Lady, could I help understanding him?--could I help being
moved?--I was moved;--my eyes I believe betrayed it.
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