<p>ONE O'CLOCK, FRIDAY MORNING. <SPAN name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></SPAN></p>
<br/>
<h2> LETTER VIII </h2>
<p>MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. NINE, FRIDAY MORN.</p>
<p>I have no opportunity to write at length, having necessary orders to give
on the melancholy occasion. Joel, who got to me by six in the morning, and
whom I dispatched instantly back with the letter I had ready from last
night, gives me but an indifferent account of the state of your mind. I
wonder not at it; but time (and nothing else can) will make it easier to
you: if (that is to say) you have compounded with your conscience; else it
may be heavier every day than other.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Tourville tells us what a way you are in. I hope you will not think of
coming hither. The lady in her will desires you may not see her. Four
copies are making of it. It is a long one; for she gives her reasons for
all she wills. I will write to you more particularly as soon as possibly I
can.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Three letters are just brought by a servant in livery, directed To Miss
Clarissa Harlowe. I will send copies of them to you. The contents are
enough to make one mad. How would this poor lady have rejoiced to receive
them!—And yet, if she had, she would not have been enabled to say,
as she nobly did,* That God would not let her depend for comfort upon any
but Himself.—And indeed for some days past she had seemed to have
got above all worldly considerations.—Her fervent love, even for her
Miss Howe, as she acknowledged, having given way to supremer fervours.**</p>
<p>* See Letter I. of this volume. ** See Vol. VIII. Letter LXII.</p>
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