But though she
was melancholy, her melancholy was of a different hue from that of her
ravisher. If virtue can ever be deprived of those glorious distinctions
that exclusively belong to her, it must be when she is precluded from
the illuminations of duty, and is no longer able to discern the path in
which she ought to tread. But even here, where distinction seems most
annihilated, it yet remains. The cruel sensations of Imogen were not
aggravated by despair, but heightened by hope. Through them all she was
sustained by the consciousness of her rectitude. The chearfulness of
innocence supported her under every calamity.
She had not long remained alone before she was summoned to partake of
that plainer repast, which in the economy of Roderic usually occupied
the middle of the day, and preceded the sumptuous and splendid
entertainment of the evening, by which the soul was instigated to
prolong the indulgence of the table, and to throw the reins upon the
neck of enjoyment. But Imogen, whose thoughts were dark, and whose mind
brooded over a thousand sad ideas, was desirous of that solitude, which
in the simplicity of pastoral life is ever at hand. She could not away
with the freedom of society, and the levity of mirth. It was painful to
her to have any witnesses of her new sensations, and she wished to
remove herself for ever from the inspection of the officious and the
inquisitive.
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