I can hardly write; yet, as I can do nothing else, I know not how to
forbear!--Yet I cannot hold my pen--How crooked and trembling the lines!
--I must leave off, till I can get quieter fingers!--Why should the
guiltless tremble so, when the guilty can possess their minds in peace?
Saturday morning.
Now let me give you an account of what passed last night: for I had no
power to write, nor yet opportunity till now.
This vile woman held my master till half an hour after seven; and he came
hither about five in the afternoon. And then I heard his voice on the
stairs, as he was coming up to me. It was about his supper; for he said,
I shall choose a boiled chicken with butter and parsley.--And up he came!
He put on a stern and majestic air; and he can look very majestic when he
pleases. Well, perverse Pamela, ungrateful runaway, said he, for my
first salutation!--You do well, don't you, to give me all this trouble
and vexation! I could not speak; but throwing myself on the floor, hid
my face, and was ready to die with grief and apprehension.--He said, Well
may you hide your face! well may you be ashamed to see me, vile forward
one, as you are!--I sobbed and wept, but could not speak. And he let me
lie, and went to the door, and called Mrs.
Pages:
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301