That wretchedly prejudiced and unprincipled writer, Justin Martyr, wrote as follows, while apostrophising the Jews:—
"God promised that you should be as the sand on the sea shore; and so you are indeed, in more senses than one. You are as numerous, and you are as barren, and incapable of producing any thing good."
CHAPTER LXXX.
MRS. SLINGSBY AND MR. TORRENS.
While the scene, related in the preceding chapter, was taking place at the residence of Lady Hatfield, in Piccadilly, incidents requiring mention occurred elsewhere.
Mrs. Slingsby was seated in her drawing-room, a prey to the most frightful alarms.
Sir Henry Courtenay had left her the evening before to acquaint Mr. Torrens with Rosamond's flight, and consult with him relative to the necessary steps to be taken to prevent the exposure which himself and Mrs. Slingsby so much dreaded. On thus parting with her, the baronet had faithfully promised to call early in the morning and inform her of the particulars of his interview with Mr. Torrens;—but it was now past one o'clock in the afternoon, and he had not made his appearance.
What could his absence mean?—had any thing disagreeable occurred?—was it possible that Rosamond could have made away with herself, and that Sir Henry had taken to flight through dread of an exposure and its consequences?
The suspense which Mrs. Slingsby endured, was horrible—horrible!
Guilty consciences invariably magnify into giants even the most dwarf-like causes of apprehension; and there was no exception to this rule on the present occasion.
A hundred times had she glanced at the elegant or-molu clock on the mantel—and as hour after hour passed, and he came not, her restlessness increased to such a degree that it at length reached a state of nervous excitement no longer endurable.