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Never since Julia did possess my heart; what news, my dearest Messenger of Love? what may I hope? Enter Julia. Jul. All that the kindest Mistress can bestow, If Carlos loves, and still will keep his Vows. Car. Julia, my Life, my Soul, what happy Stars Conspir'd to give me this dear lucky minute? Jul.
All that a Man inspir'd with Love cou'd say, all that was soft and charming. Jac. Nay, I believe his Art. Jul. Judge then what my Heart feels, which like a Fire but lightly cover'd o'er with the cold Ashes of Despair, with the least blast breaks out into a Flame; I burn, I burn, Jacinta, and only charming Carlos can allay my Pain but how? Ay, there's the question. Jac.
"I advise you to go in for it, Nick," said Peter Sherringham, to whom the preparation in question was presented. "Into the eggs with asparagus-tips? Donnez m'en s'il vous plaît. My dear fellow, how can I stand? how can I sit? Where's the money to come from?" "The money? Why from Jul !" Grace began, but immediately caught her mother's eye. "Poor Julia, how you do work her!" Nick exclaimed.
Some way I will contrive to speak with him, for he has lost his old wont if he traverse not the Street where you live: but see Donna Clara. Enter Clara. Jul. Hah, my Sister, whom yet my jealous heart can scarce be reconciled to; so deeply was my fear of Rivalship fixt there, so sad, my Sister, and so near the happy day with Carlos? Cla.
No, nor is it possible I shou'd, this Devil haunts me so from room to room, like my evil Genius to prevent that Good; oh, for an opportunity of one kind Minute to return Acknowledgments for this kind Letter he has sent me. Jac. I'm glad you find me a Sybil: Madam, I ever prophesy'd a happier end of that Amour than your ill Fortune has hitherto promised, but what said the lovely Cavalier? Jul.
No, Mischief will ensue, my Love's too high, too nicely true to brook Affronts like that. Jac. Yet you first broke with him. Jul.
I found Kate's cookery-book, and would have flung it through the window, but my eye caught the quaint inscription on the fly-leaf, in her big, pot-hooky handwriting: "KATHERINE WHEATMAN, her book, God give her grease to larn to cook. At the Hanyards. Jul. 1739." The simple words stung me like angry hornets.
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