rtuned to show her mine, but declined it. She said she several times
perceived her to be in disorder, and to restrain herself with great
difficulty; and once or twice she muttered to herself that she had found
it out, or that she would find it out, she could not tell whether; and
that she often saw tears in her eyes; that when I said my suit of
Turkish clothes was put up, but that she should see it when we arrived
in Holland, she heard her say softly she would go over on purpose then.

After she had ended her observations, I added: "I observed, too, that
the girl talked and looked oddly, and that she was mighty inquisitive,
but I could not imagine what it was she aimed at." "Aimed at," says the
Quaker, "'tis plain to me what she aims at. She believes thou art the
same Lady Roxana that danced in the Turkish vest, but she is not
certain." "Does she believe so?" says I; "if I had thought that, I would
have put her out of her pain." "Believe so!" says the Quaker; "yes, and
I began to think so too, and should have believed so still, if thou
had'st not satisfied me to the contrary by thy taking no notice of it,
and by what thou hast said since." "Should you have believed so?" said I
warmly; "I am very sorry for that. Why, would you have taken me for an
actress, or a French stage-player?" "No," says the good kind creature,
"thou carriest it too far; as soon as thou madest thy reflections upon
her, I knew it could not be; but who could think any other when she
described the Turkish dress which thou hast here, with the head-tire and
jewels, and when she named thy maid Amy too, and several other
circumstances concurring? I should certainly have believed it," said
she, "if thou hadst not contradicted it; but as soon as I heard thee
speak, I concluded it was otherwise." "That was very kind," said I, "and
I am obliged to you for doing me so much justice; it is more, it seems,
than that young talking creature does." "Nay," says the Quaker, "indeed
she does not do thee justice; for she as certainly believes it still as
ever she did." "Does she?" said I. "Ay," says the Quaker; "and I warrant
thee she'll make thee another visit about it." "Will she?" said I;
"then I believe I shall downright affront her." "No, thou shalt not
affront her," says she (full of her good-humour and temper), "I'll take
that part off thy hands, for I'll affront her for thee, and not let her
see thee." I thought that was a very kind offer, but was at a loss how
s