ABSTRACT
Nothing has indeed happened, my dear friend, which can at all countenance your prognostics. Zilia’s looks are more placid, but not less firm than before. She behaves with great sweetness, but joined with that kind of reserve which gives no hope; nor have I the least reason to imagine she will ever change her sentiments. However, as you wish me to change the subject, I will not dwell for ever on the same, but entertain you with what you so much wished to be acquainted with; the history of Miss St. Clare, as she gave it in writing to my sister: it is a melancholy one, and, I think, upon the whole, will give you more pain than pleasure. But I will no longer anticipate.
