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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 315 pages of information about Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady Volume 7.

But, judge my astonishment, my distraction, when last night, the messenger, returning post-haste, brought me word, that she had not been heard of since Friday morning! and that a letter lay for her at her lodgings, which came by the post; and must be mine!

She went out about six that morning; only intending, as they believe, to go to morning-prayers at Covent-Garden church, just by her lodgings, as she had done divers times before—­Went on foot!—­Left word she should be back in an hour!—­Very poorly in health!

Lord, have mercy upon me!  What shall I do!—­I was a distracted creature all last night!

O Madam! you know not how I love her!—­My own soul is not dearer to me, than my Clarissa Harlowe!—­Nay! she is my soul—­for I now have none—­only a miserable one, however—­for she was the joy, the stay, the prop of my life.  Never woman loved woman as we love one another.  It is impossible to tell you half her excellencies.  It was my glory and my pride, that I was capable of so fervent a love of so pure and matchless a creature.—­ But now—­who knows, whether the dear injured has not all her woes, her undeserved woes, completed in death; or is not reserved for a worse fate!  —­This I leave to your inquiry—­for—­your—­[shall I call the man——­ your?] relation I understand is still with you.

Surely, my good Ladies, you were well authorized in the proposals you made in presence of my mother!—­Surely he dare not abuse your confidence, and the confidence of your noble relations!  I make no apology for giving you this trouble, nor for desiring you to favour with a line, by this messenger,

Your almost distracted
Anna Howe.

LETTER XII

Mr. Lovelace, to John Belford, ESQ. 
M. Hall, satNight, June 15.

All undone, undone, by Jupiter!—­Zounds, Jack, what shall I do now! a curse upon all my plots and contrivances!—­But I have it——­in the very heart and soul of me I have it!

Thou toldest me, that my punishments were but beginning—­Canst thou, O fatal prognosticator, cans thou tell me, where they will end?

Thy assistance I bespeak.  The moment thou receivest this, I bespeak thy assistance.  This messenger rides for life and death—­and I hope he’ll find you at your town-lodgings; if he meet not with you at Edgware; where, being Sunday, he will call first.

This cursed, cursed woman, on Friday dispatched man and horse with the joyful news (as she thought it would be to me) in an exulting letter from Sally Martin, that she had found out my angel as on Wednesday last; and on Friday morning, after she had been at prayers at Covent-Garden church —­praying for my reformation perhaps—­got her arrested by two sheriff’s officers, as she was returning to her lodgings, who (villains!) put her into a chair they had in readiness, and carried her to one of the cursed fellow’s houses.

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