Clarissa Harlowe by Samuel Richardson

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Wednesday, Twelve o'clock

Dear Lovelace, I have plaguey news to acquaint thee with. Miss Harlowe is gone off! -- Quite gone, by soul! -- I have no time for particulars, your servant being gone off. But if I had, we are not yet come to the bottom of the matter. The ladies here are all blubbering like devills, accusing one another most confoundedly: whilst Belton and I damn them all together in thy name.

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