"Mr. Reed was my uncle,—my mother's brother."
"The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations."
"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off."
"Why?"
"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."
"But Reed left children?—you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead, yesterday—who he said was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty, a season or two ago, in London.
"John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."
"And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off."
