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PAUL CLIFFORD.
81
CHAPTER V.
"In short, Isabella, I offer you myself!"
"Heavens!" cried Isabella, "what do I hear? You, my Lord?"
"Heavens!" cried Isabella, "what do I hear? You, my Lord?"
Castle of Otranto.
A novel is like a weatherglass, where the man appears out at one time, the woman at another! Variable as the atmosphere, the changes of our story now re-present Lucy to the reader.
That charming young person,—who, it may be remarked, is (her father excepted) the only unsophisticated and unsullied character in the pages of a story in some measure designed to show in the depravities of character the depravities of that social state wherein characters are formed,—was sitting alone in her apartment at the period in which we return to her. As Time, and that innate
