She is the counterpart of
dozens of girls; lively, brown-eyed, brown-haired, underbred--it is not
too harsh to say so--underbred slightly; half-educated, whether
quickwitted I dare not opine. She is undoubtedly the last whom I or
another person would have fixed upon as one to work me this unmitigated
evil. I do not know her, and I believe I do not care to know her, and I
am thirsting for the hour to come when I shall study her. Is not this to
have the poison of a bite in one's blood? The wrath of Venus is not a
fable. I was a hard reader and I despised the sex in my youth, before the
family estates fell to me; since when I have playfully admired the sex; I
have dallied with a passion, and not read at all, save for diversion: her
anger is not a fable. You may interpret many a mythic tale by the facts
which lie in your own blood. My emotions have lain altogether dormant in
sentimental attachment. I have, I suppose, boasted of, Python slain, and
Cupid has touched me up with an arrow. I trust to my own skill rather
than to his mercy for avoiding a second from his quiver.
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