“I’ll ring when you are wanted, Marriott,” said Lady Delacour; and pushing open the door with violence she rushed forward to the middle of the room, and turning back, she beckoned to Belinda to follow her--“Come in; what is it you are afraid of?” said she. Belinda went on, and the moment she was in the room, Lady Delacour shut and locked the door. The room was rather dark, as there was no light in it except what came from the candle which Lady Delacour held in her hand, and which burned but dimly. Belinda, as she looked round, saw nothing but a confusion of linen rags; vials, some empty, some full, and she perceived that there was a strong smell of medicines. Lady Delacour, whose motions were all precipitate, like those of a person whose mind is in great agitation, looked from side to side of the room, without seeming to know what she was in search of. She then, with a species of fury, wiped the paint from her face, and returning to Belinda, held the candle so as to throw the light full upon her livid features. Her eyes were sunk, her cheeks hollow; no trace of youth or beauty remained on her death-like countenance, which formed a horrid contrast with her gay fantastic dress. “You are shocked, Belinda,” said she; “but as yet you have seen nothing--look here,”--and baring one half of her bosom, she revealed a hideous spectacle. Belinda sunk back into a chair; Lady Delacour flung herself on her knees before her. “Am I humbled, am I wretched enough?” cried she, her voice trembling with agony. “Yes, pity me for what you have seen, and a thousand times more for that which you cannot see:--my mind is eaten away like my body by incurable disease--inveterate remorse--remorse for a life of folly--of folly which has brought on me all the punishments of guilt.” “My husband,” continued she, and her voice suddenly altered from the tone of grief to that of anger--“my husband hates me--no matter--I despise him. His relations hate me--no matter--I despise them. My own relations hate me--no matter, I never wish to see them more--never shall they see my sorrow--never shall they hear a complaint, a sigh from me. There is no torture which I could not more easily endure than their insulting pity. I will die, as I have lived, the envy and admiration of the world. When I am gone, let them find out their mistake; and moralize, if they will, over my grave.” She paused. Belinda had no power to speak.