lieve he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me seek once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing events.
Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, sympathizing, and (as he thinks) unobtrusive politeness—if it were more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could snub him; but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and thoughtful that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my duty to suspect him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. His kindness may not all be feigned, but still, let not the purest impulse of gratitude to him, induce me to forget myself; let me remember the game of chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those indescribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and I think I shall be
