deny me, and say I was gone out. She did it so oddly, too, that, when his lordship went away, he said coldly to her, 'Well, well, Mrs Amy, I find your mistress does not desire to be seen; tell her I won't trouble her any more', repeating the words 'any more' two or three times over, just at his going away.
I reflected a little on it at first as unkind to him, having had so many considerable presents from him, but, as I have said, I was sick of him, and that on some accounts which, if I could suffer myself to publish them, would fully justify my conduct. But that part of the story will not bear telling, so I must leave it, and proceed.
I had begun a little, as I have said above, to reflect upon my manner of living, and to think of putting a new face upon it, and nothing moved me to it more than the consideration of my having three children, who were now grown up; and yet that, while I was in that station of life, I could not converse with them or make myself known to them; and this gave me a great deal of uneasiness. At last I entered into talk on this part of it with my woman Amy.
We lived at Kensington, as I have said, and though I had done with my old wicked l, as above, yet I was frequently visited, as I said, by some others; so that, in a word, I began to be known in the town, not by name only, but by my character too, which was worse.
It was one morning, when Amy was in bed with me, and I had some of my dullest thoughts about me, that Amy, hearing me sigh pretty often, asked me if I was not well. 'Yes, Amy, I am well enough', says I, 'but my mind is oppressed with heavy thoughts, and has been so a good while'; and then I told her how it grieved me that I could not make myself known to my own children, or form any acquaintances in the world. 'Why so?' says Amy. 'Why, prithee, Amy', says I, 'what will my children say to themselves, and to one another, when they find their mother, however rich she may be, is at best but a whore, a common whore? And as for acquaintance, prithee, Amy, what sober lady or what family of any character will visit or be acquainted with a whore?'
'Why, all that's true, madam', says Amy; 'but how can it be remedied now?' 'Tis true, Amy', said I, 'the thing cannot be remedied now, but the scandal of it, I fancy, may be thrown off.'
'Truly', says Amy, 'I do not see how, unless you will go abroad again, and live in some other nation where nobody has known us or seen us, so that they cannot say they ever saw us before.'
That very thought of Amy put what follows into my head, and I returned, 'Why, Amy', says I, 'is it not possible for me to shift my being from this part of the town and go and live in another part of the city, or another part of the country, and be as entirely concealed as if I had never been known?'
'Yes', says Amy, 'I believe it might; but then you must put off all your equipages and servants, coaches and horses, change your liveries—nay, your own clothes, and, if it was possible, your very face.'
'Well', says I, 'and that's the way, Amy, and that I'll do, and that forthwith; for I am not able to live in this manner any longer.' Amy came into this with a kind of pleasure particular to herself—that is to say, with an eagerness not to be resisted; for Amy was apt to be precipitant in her motions, and was for doing it immediately. 'Well', says I, 'Amy, as soon as you will; but what course must we take to do it? We cannot
