As men go! Poor Miss Rawlins, thought I; and dost thou know how men go?
Cl. O Madam, you know him not! He can put on the appearance of an angel of light; but has a black, a very black heart!
Poor I!—
Miss R. I could not have thought it, truly! But men are very deceitful, now-a-days.
Now-a-days!—A fool!—Have not her history-books told her that they were always so?
Mrs. Moore, sighing. I have found it so, I am sure, to my cost!—
Who knows but in her time poor goody Moore may have met with a Lovelace, or a Belford, or some such vile fellow? My little harum-scarum beauty knows not what strange histories every woman living, who has had the least independence of will, could tell her, were such to be as communicative as she is. But here's the thing—I have given her cause enough of offence; but not enough to make her hold her tongue.
Cl. As to the letters he has left with me, I know not what to say to them: but am resolved never to have any thing to say to him.
Miss R. If, Madam, I may be allowed to say so, I think you carry matters very far.
Cl. Has he been making a bad cause a good one with you, Madam?—That he can do with those who know him not. Indeed I heard him talking, thought not what he said, and am indifferent about it.—But what account does he give of himself?