“Oh Delvile!” cried she, now assuming more courage, “why will you not speak to me openly?—something, I see, is wrong; may I not hear it? may I not tell you, at least, my concern that any thing has distressed you?”
“You are too good!” cried he; “to deserve you is not possible, but to afflict you is inhuman!”
“Why so?” cried she, more chearfully; “must I not share the common lot? or expect the whole world to be new modelled, lest I should meet in it any thing but happiness?”
“There is not, indeed, much danger! Have you pen and ink here?”
She brought them to him immediately, with paper.
“You have been writing to me, you say?—I will begin a letter myself.”
“To me?” cried she.
He made no answer, but took up the pen, and wrote a few words, and then, flinging it down, said, “Fool!—I could have done this without coming!”
“May I look at it?” said she; and, finding he made no opposition, advanced and read.
I fear to alarm you by rash precipitation,—I fear to alarm you by lingering suspense,—but all is not well—