irresistible impulse, throwing himself at her feet; "if I could hope to merit you—if I could hope to raise myself—if I could—but no—no—no! I am cut off from all hope, and for ever!"
There was so deep, so bitter, so heartfelt an anguish and remorse in the voice with which these last words were spoken, that Lucy, hurried off her guard, and forgetting every thing in wondering sympathy and compassion, answered, extending her hand towards Clifford, who still kneeling, seized and covered it with kisses of fire,
"Do not speak thus, Mr. Clifford; do not accuse yourself of what I am sure, quite sure, you cannot deserve. Perhaps, forgive me, your birth, your fortune, are beneath your merits; and you have penetrated into my father's weakness on the former point; or, perhaps, you yourself have not avoided all the errors into which men are hurried; perhaps, you have been imprudent, or thoughtless; perhaps you have—(fashion is contagious)—played beyond your means, or incurred debts;—these are faults, it is true, and to be regretted, yet not surely irreparable."
