And who is she? The daughter of a Baronet--Pshaw! What is a
Baronet?--Away with such insolent, such ridiculous distinctions. She is
herself! Let Folly and Inferiority keep their distance!

But I?--Low bred and vulgar let Pride and Error call me, but not
villain! I the seducer of men's daughters! Noble men and still nobler
daughters! I! Why, would I be so very vile a thing? Would I, if I
could?

Yet who shall benumb the understanding, chain up the fancy, and freeze
sensation? Can I command myself deaf when she sings, dead when she
speaks, or rush into idiotism to avoid her enchantments?

Despise me, Oliver, if thou wilt, but the deep sense I have of my own
folly does but increase the distemper of my brain. She herself pities
me, yet does not suspect my disease. 'Tis evident she does not; for her
soul is above artifice. She kindly asked--was I not well? I owned I was
not quite so cheerful as I could wish to be; and [wouldst thou think
it?] was presumptuous enough to hint that I thought the enlivening air
of France might do me good. Thou seest how frantic I am! She answered
with the utmost ease, and without the most distant suspicion of my
selfish, my audacious motive, that she would speak to Sir Arthur. But I
was obliged to request her to forbear, till I had first tried to gain
my father's consent, of which indeed I had but feeble hopes.

Every way miserable, why am I obliged to think and speak of my father
with so little respect? Indeed he is--Well, well!--He is my father--I
am convinced he is become wealthy; nay indeed he gives me to understand
as much, when he wishes to gain any purpose, by endeavouring to excite