“No, no, no—‘twould be all to no purpose.”
“‘Tis that hopelessness which is most your enemy. If you would but exert your better reason—”
“No, madam, no!—’tis a fruitless struggle. I know myself too well—I can do nothing so right as to retire—to turn monk—hermit.”
“I have no respect,” cried I, “for these selfish seclusions. I can never suppose we were created in the midst of society, in order to run away to a useless solitude. I have not a doubt but you may do well, if you will do well.”
Some time after he suddenly exclaimed, “Have you—tell me—have you, ma’am, never done what you repent?”
O “yes!—at times.”
“You have?” he cried, eagerly.
“O yes, alas!—yet not, I think, very often—for it is not very often I have done anything!”
“And what is it has saved you?”
I really did not know well what to answer him; I could say nothing that would not sound like parade, or implied superiority. I suppose he was afraid himself of the latter; for, finding me silent, he was pleased to answer for me.