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Eleven o'clock. "For my shepherd is kind, and my heart is at ease." What fools women are, Lucy! He took her hand, expressed concern for her health, softened the tone of his voice, looked a few civil things with those expressive lying eyes of his, and without one word of explanation all was forgot in a moment. Good night! Yours, A. Fermor. Heavens! the fellow is here, has followed me to my dressing-room; was ever any thing so confident? These modest men have ten times the assurance of your impudent fellows. I believe absolutely he is going to make love to me: 'tis a critical hour, Lucy; and to rob one's friend of a lover is really a temptation. Twelve o'clock. The dear man is gone, and has made all up: he insisted on my explaining the reasons of the cold reception he had met with; which you know was impossible, without betraying the secret of poor Emily's little foolish heart. I however contrived to let him know we were a little piqued at his going without seeing us, and that we were something inclined to be jealous of his _friendship_ for Madame Des Roches. He made a pretty decent defence; and, though I don't absolutely acquit him of coquetry, yet upon the whole I think I forgive him. He loves Emily, which is great merit with me: I am only sorry they are two such poor devils, it is next to impossible they should ever come together. I think I am not angry now; as to Emily, her eyes dance with pleasure; she has not the same countenance as in the morning; this love is the finest cosmetick in the world. After all, he is a charming fellow, and has eyes, Lucy--Heaven be praised, he never pointed their fire at me! Adieu! I will try to sleep. Yours, A. Fermor. LETTER 94. To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street. Quebec, March 20. The coldness of which I complained, my dear Lucy, in regard to Emily, was the most flattering circumstance which could have happened: I will not say it was the effect of jealousy, but it certainly was of a delicacy of affection which extremely resembles it. Never did she appear so lovely as yesterday; never did she display such variety of loveliness: there was a something in her look, when I first addressed her on entering the room, touching beyond all words, a certain inexpressible melting languor, a dying softness, which it was not in man to see unmoved: what then must a lover have felt? I had the pleasure, after having
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