The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 374: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FLORINA dot a threw herself upon the couch and gave vent to her woe in a torrent of the bitterest weeping. Long, oh, far too long, poor girl, was that paroxysm of almost mortal anguish, — an anguish proportionate to the love which she experienced for Deveril, and that love itself was illimitable. When the vio- lence of her emotions had somewhat exhausted itself and she began to feel that she was capable of serious reflection, she rose from the couch on which she had flung herself in her despair, and taking her seat on a sofa, endeavoured to reflect upon all that had occurred. She could not altogether believe Lady Saxondale’s story, and yet she could not altogether doubt it. She fancied that there must be some foundation for it, but that her ladvship, either in her vanity or her anger, had exaggerated many of the details. Deeply and devotedly as Florina loved William Deveril, and dreadful as it was to put faith in a narrative so damnatory to his sincerity, yet the young lady, inexperi- enced as she was in the ways of the world, could not possibly imagine that it was all false, and that, instead of a wanton inconstancy being imputed to Deveril, it was a sheer wicked- ness that lay at the door of Lady Saxondale. But though unable to believe in Deveril’s complete innocence, Florina was not prepared to break off with him entirely without pre- viously giving him an opportunity of explanation, or justifi- cation, if possible. ‘There was still far too much confidence in her love not to induce her to adopt this course, and though tortured by horrible doubts as she was, there was likewise too much justice in her heart to permit the young damsel to condemn her lover upon that purely one-sided statement. “And yet,’ she thought within herself, ‘‘ what could he possibly say in his defence? There surely must be some foundation for Lady Saxondale’s statements, and if that foundation be ever so slight, it is nevertheless sufficient to form a colossal monument of Deveril’s perfidy toward me. Oh, who would have thought that when yesterday he knelt at my feet and poured forth the impassioned language of love, he could so soon repeat the tale elsewhere! It seems impossible, it seems impossible! Not merely is love out- raged, but every idea of propriety, and even nature itself. It cannot be true. No, Deveril is incapable of such conduct. It would stamp him as false-hearted, vile, profligate, — and, oh, who could believe him to be all this? But Lady CORnNIELDOOKS (C(O)