High concern took possession of every sweet feature. She pitied me!—by my soul, she pitied me!
Where is he?
Too much in a hurry for good manners, [another parenthesis, Jack! Good manners are so little natural, that we ought to be composed to observe them: politeness will not live in a storm]. I cannot stay to answer questions, cries the wench—though desirous to answer At last, O Lord! let Mrs. Lovelace know!—There is danger, to be sure! whispered from one nymph to another; but at the door, and so loud, that my listening fair-one might hear. Out she darts—As how! as how, Dorcas! O Madam—A vomiting of blood! A vessel broke, to be sure! Down she hastens; finds every one as busy over my blood in the entry, as if it were that of the Neapolitan saint. In steps my charmer, with a face of sweet concern. How do you, Mr. Lovelace? O my best love!—Very well!—Very well!—Nothing at all! nothing of consequence!—I shall be well in an instant!—Straining again! for I was indeed plaguy sick, though no more blood came.