She who has the prettiest hand and foot of any woman in England; she who has haunted, and scorned, and tormented me for almost the half of my life; for Arden's wife. I have an appointment with her at midnight,
BRUTON.
You do not say so,—you cannot say so. Has misery driven her to this?
ROBINAIR.
We shall see—you shall see.
BRUTON.
I cannot believe it.
ROBINAIR.
Be as sceptical and as cautious as you please; but go with me to Chelsea in the evening, and let seeing and believing be yoke-follows.
BRUTON.
I will not go.—Nay, I will go to see you disappointed. You deceive yourself: she cannot have fallen so low.
ROBINAIR.
Ay, she was lofty enough once. But the lark cannot be always in the clouds; the heavy rain beats upon her wings, and down she drops upon
