the world, and wish to remain for ever a stranger to all whom I
once knew in it.

MR. CHAINMAIL. You can have done nothing to dishonour your name.

MISS SUSANNAH. No, sir. My father has done that of which the
world disapproves, in matters of which I pretend not to judge. I
have suffered for it as I will never suffer again. My name is my
own secret: I have no other, and that is one not worth knowing.
You see what I am, and all I am. I live according to the condition
of my present fortune, and here, so living, I have found
tranquillity.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Yet, I entreat you, tell me your name.

MISS SUSANNAH. Why, sir?

MR. CHAINMAIL. Why, but to throw my hand, my heart, my fortune, at
your feet, if -.

MISS SUSANNAH. If my name be worthy of them.

MR. CHAINMAIL. Nay, nay, not so; if your hand and heart are free.

MISS SUSANNAH. My hand and heart are free; but they must be sought
from myself, and not from my name.

She fixed her eyes on him, with a mingled expression of mistrust,
of kindness, and of fixed resolution, which the far-gone inamorato
found irresistible.