"At length my friend was removed from me, and I was again left to my
solitude, to the tormenting conversation with my own reflections,
and to apply to books for my only comfort. I now read almost all day
long.- How many books you think I read in three months?" "I can't
guess, indeed, cousin," answered Sophia. "Perhaps half a score." "Half
a score! half a thousand, child!" answered the other. "I read a good
deal in Daniel's English History of France; a great deal in Plutarch's
Lives, the Atalantis, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Plays, Chillingworth, the
Countess D'Aulnois, and Locke's Human Understanding.
"During this interval I wrote three very supplicating, and, I
thought, moving letters to my aunt; but, as I received no answer to
any of them, my disdain would not suffer me to continue my
application." Here she stopt, and, looking earnestly at Sophia,
said, "Methinks, my dear, I read something in your eyes which
reproaches me of a neglect in another place, where I should have met
with a kinder return." "Indeed, dear Harriet," answered Sophia,
"your story is an apology for any neglect; but, indeed, I feel that
I have been guilty of a remissness, without so good an excuse.-Yet
pray proceed; for I long, though I tremble, to hear the end."
Thus, then, Mrs. Fitzpatrick resumed her narrative:- "My husband
now took a second journey to England, where he continued upwards of
three months; during the greater part of this time I led a life
which nothing but having led a worse could make me think tolerable;
for perfect solitude can never be reconciled to a social mind, like
mine, but when it relieves you from the company of those you hate.
Pages:
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729