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<h2> LETTER IV </h2>
<h3> MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. </h3>
<p>Curse upon the Colonel, and curse upon the writer of the last letter I
received, and upon all the world! Thou to pretend to be as much interested
in my Clarissa's fate as myself!—'Tis well for one of us that this
was not said to me, instead of written.—Living or dying, she is mine—and
only mine. Have I not earned her dearly?—Is not d——n——n
likely to be the purchase to me, though a happy eternity will be her's?</p>
<p>An eternal separation!—O God! O God!—How can I bear that
thought!—But yet there is life!—Yet, therefore, hope—enlarge
my hope, and thou shalt be my good genius, and I will forgive thee every
thing.</p>
<p>For this last time—but it must not, shall not be the last—Let
me hear, the moment thou receivest this—what I am to be—for,
at present, I am</p>
<p>The most miserable of Men.</p>
<p>ROSE, AT KNIGHTSBRIDGE, FIVE O'CLOCK.</p>
<p>My fellow tells me that thou art sending Mowbray and Tourville to me:—I
want them not—my soul's sick of them, and of all the world—but
most of myself. Yet, as they send me word they will come to me
immediately, I will wait for them, and for thy next. O Belford, let it not
be—But hasten it, be what it may!</p>
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