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through the door, (which he had not closed,) into the road. I ran after the other carriages, and entreated some one of my family to travel with us to protect me, which was accordingly done. The marks of his fingers were in bruises on my throat; and from the date of this foreign tour there existed an alienation from my husband on the part of my family, which his subsequent conduct completed.
Early in the ensuing summer, the quarrel, which divided him from them for ever, took place. On this occasion I left Mr Norton, and withdrew to the house of my brother-in-law; and my husband desiring my return, my brother sent a friend to arrange conditions for that return, in writing; stating that till that was done he refused to enter into any correspondence whatever with Mr Norton, nor was it to be thought that any brother would permit his sister to receive the treatment I did. I was warned and earnestly advised not to go back, after all that had occurred; and if I had taken that advice,—if I had had more resolution and less credulity,—I should not now be summing up the evidence of seventeen years of torment, sorrow, and shame. But it would not have suited Mr Norton so to let me escape. He gave the written pledge of good treatment to the friend my brother had sent. He said he was willing to "make any sacrifice, provided I returned to my home." He wrote to me, entreating me not to let others divide us. He wrote to my family in the extremest and most exaggerated terms of submission. He said he was glad they had avenged me and scorned him, and he vowed to treat me kindly for the future.
To me, his letters were couched in terms of the most passionate adjuration for pity and forgiveness. They were letters it was impossible to read without being touched—they were letters which drew me home again. In spite of past deceiving, past broken promises, past ill-usage—in spite of the advice to "hold firm," and not return, which I received from almost every friend I had. I was safe; I was out of his power: my
