I am not going to upbraid you; but after I got your letter, I could not rest at my father's, where I once knew happiness and innocence.—I wish'd to have taken a last leave of you, and to beg a trifling assistance;—but the gentleman who has befriended me in my wanderings, would not suffer me to do so; yet I could not help writing, to tell you, I am quitting this neighbourhood for ever!—That you may never know a moment's sorrow, will always be the prayer of
Your unhappy
Mary.
My mind is hell to me! love, sorrow, remorse, and—yes—and jealousy, all distract me:—and no counsellor to advise with; no friend to whom I may—
Enter Tom Shuffleton.
Frank. Tom Shuffleton! you never arrived more apropos in your life.
Shuff. That's what the women always say to me. I've rumbled on the road, all night, Frank. My bones ache, my head's muzzy—and we'll drink two bottles of claret a-piece, after dinner, to enliven us.
Frank. You seem in spirits, Tom, I think, now.
Shuff. Yes;—I have had a windfall—Five hundred pounds.
Frank. A legacy?