seated on her bags of dollars, I resolved once more to visit Europe. I
wrote to a distant relation in England, with whom I had been educated,
mentioning the vessel in which I intended to sail. Arriving in London,
my senses were intoxicated. I ran from street to street, from theater
to theater, and the women of the town (again I must beg pardon for my
habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.

"A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late
to the hotel in which I had lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked
down in a private street, and hurried, in a state of insensibility, into
a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to
be treated like one who had lost them. My keepers are deaf to my
remonstrances and enquiries, yet assure me that my confinement shall not
last long. Still I cannot guess, though I weary myself with conjectures,
why I am confined, or in what part of England this house is situated. I
imagine sometimes that I hear the sea roar, and wished myself again on
the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you."*

A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative,
when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the "never ending, still
beginning," task of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice,
and feeling them reverberate on her heart.

* The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in
a former instance, appears to have been an after-thought of
the author. This has occasioned the omission of any
allusion to that circumstance in the preceding narration.
EDITOR. [Godwin's note]