Every reader of a sentimental turn (and we desire no other) must have been pleased with the tableau with which the last act of our little drama concluded; for what can be prettier than an image of Love on his knees before Beauty?
But when Love heard that awful confession from Beauty that she was married already, he bounced up from his attitude of humility on the carpet, uttering exclamations which caused poor little Beauty to be more frightened than she was when she made her avowal. "Married; you're joking," the Baronet cried, after the first explosion of rage and wonder. "You're making vun of me, Becky. Who'd ever go to marry you without a shilling to your vortune?"
"Married! married!" Rebecca said, in an agony of tears--her voice choking with emotion, her handkerchief up to her ready eyes, fainting against the mantelpiece a figure of woe fit to melt the most obdurate heart. "O Sir Pitt, dear Sir Pitt, do not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to me. It is only your generosity that has extorted my secret."

Every reader of a sentimental turn must have been pleased with the scene just described; for what can be prettier than an image of Love on his knees before Beauty?
But when Love heard that awful confession from Beauty - that she was married already - he bounced up from the carpet with fearful exclamations.
"Married! you're joking," the Baronet cried in rage and wonder. "You're making vun of me, Becky. Who'd ever marry you without a shilling to your vortune?"
"Married! married!" Rebecca said, in an agony of tears - her voice choking with emotion, her handkerchief up to her eyes, a figure of woe to melt the hardest heart. "O dear Sir Pitt, do not think me ungrateful. It is only your generosity that has extorted my secret."
