my canvass with rather too much energy for the good of the picture.
"Mrs. Huntingdon," said he with bitter solemnity, "you are cruel—cruel to me—cruel to yourself."
"Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise."
"I must speak—my heart will burst if I don't! I have been silent long enough—and you must hear me!" cried he boldly intercepting my retreat to the door. "You tell me you owe no allegiance to your husband; he openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you up to any body that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one will believe that you go alone—all the world will say, 'She has left him at last, and who can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still can pity him; but who is the companion of her flight?' Thus you will have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such): even your best friends will not believe in it; because, it is monstrous, and not to be credited—but by those who suffer from
