He complains of me, my dear Henrietta! He has the presumption to complain, to teach me lessons of generosity? The husband of Fanny Montford is astonished at my inconstancy! He expected from me other sentiments – And all this with a haughtiness – Read, read, I entreat you, the copy of his insolent letter – This unfaithful man has not the least idea of the sorrows he has inflicted on me – But is it possible for a man to comprehend the miseries which he may cause?

To Lady Catesby.

To fly an unhappy man, to reject his submissions, to abandon him to his remorse, to despise his repentance, to reflect without pity on what he deserves to suffer; is the behaviour of a woman devoid of all sentiment, who thinking herself injured, gives herself up to all the fury of resentment, and from whom indeed, one has no right to expect more softness or complacency.

But to open her heart to the generous emotions of pity, to compassionate the fate of him, who is the more to be lamented, because he has merited those miseries under which he groans; to forget, to pardon, to remit to him as a friend, part of his offences as a lover; to grant some indulgence to the penitence of a criminal; to hear him, at least, is what I expected from the noble, the enlightened soul of Lady Catesby.

But she is changed; she is no longer that faithful friend, that tender mistress, whose love nothing could weaken. Her letters, the only consolation of my exile, the only balm of my afflicted soul; those letters, so dear, so often pressed fondly to my lips, so often bathed with my tears, those charming letters, all that now remains of my past happiness, they still tell me you have loved me; but your eyes have contradicted their pleasing assurances, and your departure has too well confirmed my misfortune, and convinced me of your hatred.