Samuel Richardson,
Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady…
“ O my Arabella! if WE were to receive as little mercy—And there again she stopt, her tears interrupting her farther speech; every one, all the time, remaining silent; their countenances showing a grief in their hearts too big for expression. Now you see, Mr. Belford, that my dearest cousin could be allowed all her merit!—What a dreadful thing is after-reflection upon a conduct so perverse and unnatural? O this cursed friend of your's, Mr. Belford! This detested Lovelace!—To him, to him is owing— Pardon me, Sir. I will lay down my pen till I have recovered my temper. ”
