My good Dr. Bartlett, will you allow me to accuse you of a virtue too
rigorous? That is sometimes the fault of very good people. You own that
Sir Charles has not, even to you, revealed a secret so disgraceful to
her. You own, that he has only blamed her for having too little regard
for her reputation, and for the violence of her temper: yet how
patiently, for one of such a temper, has she taken his departure, almost
on the day of her arrival! He could not have given her an opportunity to
indicate to him a concession so criminal: she could not, if he had, have
made the overture. Wicked, wicked world! I will not believe you! And
the less credit shall you have with me, Italian world, as I have seen the
lady. The innocent heart will be a charitable one. Lady Olivia is only
too intrepid. Prosperity, as Sir Charles observed, has been a snare to
her, and set her above a proper regard to her reputation.--Merciless
world! I do not love you. Dear Dr. Bartlett, you are not yet absolutely
perfect! These hints of yours against Olivia, gathered from the
malevolence of the envious, are proofs (the first indeed that I have met
with) of your imperfection!
Excuse me, Lucy: how have I run on! Disappointment has mortified me, and
made me good-natured.--I will welcome adversity, if it enlarge my
charity.
The doctor tells me, that Emily, with her half-broken heart, will be here
presently.
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