the folly of this compassion and these hopes. I need not be assiduous to
spare you the shame and mortification of hearing the truth. Shame is as
much a stranger to your heart as remorse. Say what I will, disclose what I
will, your conduct will be just the same. A show of much reluctance and
humility will, no doubt, be made, and the tongue will be busy in imploring
favour which the heart disdains.

In the foresight of this, I was going to forbid your writing; but you
care not for my forbidding. As long as you think it possible to reconcile
me to your views and make me a partaker in your infamy, you will harass me
with importunity, with feigned penitence and preposterous arguments. But
one thing at least is in my power. I can shun you, and I can throw your
unopened letters into the fire; and that, believe me, Jane, I shall
do.

But I am wasting time. My indignation carries me away from my purpose.
Let me return to it, and, having told you all my mind, let me dismiss the
hateful subject forever.

I knew the motives that induced you to marry Lewis Talbot. They were
good ones. Your compliance with mine and your father's wishes in that
respect showed that force of understanding which I always ascribed to you.
Your previous reluctance, your scruples, were indeed unworthy of you, but
you conquered them, and that was better; perhaps it evinced more
magnanimity than never to have had them.

You were happy, I long thought, in your union with a man of probity and
good sense. You may be sure I thought of you often, but only with
pleasure. Certain indications I early saw in you of a sensibility that
required strict government; an inattention to any thing but feeling; a