Dammit, Lovelace. You’ve ruined the whole book.
Ruined it. Trashed it. If I met you I’d punch you in the face. With a brick. A brick tied to an anvil.
*spoiler alert* If you are not yet up to the 875ish page mark of Clarissa, look away now. If you have read it, or never intend to read it, as you were.
I was rooting for you, In spite of all your evil plans, kind of kidnapping and lying to Clarissa, getting hookers to play parts in your charade. I forgave all of that, because she was being an annoying ninny, who in spite of her obvious desire for you, was playing ridiculously hard to get, and so even as those ploys were fake, she did want to be with you, her family were never going to take her back, so she was going to come out of the situation happy. I was rooting for you because you were hot and intelligent and rich. And hot. I called you McHottie. I wanted to marry you myself.
But now we find out, and not even directly, you just allude to it in your letter, that Mrs Sinclair came up with the idea of drugging Clarissa. She roofied her. And that way, you could take Clarissa’s honour, leaving her ruined and no longer any use to any other man. I don’t care that you felt guilty. That you hated yourself and it did you no good as she doesn’t remember it happening, she just knows it did, but this hasn’t broken her. She is not spent spirit you were hoping she would be. It was all for nothing.
Now there is no one for which I wish a happy outcome left in this book. Except maybe Clarissa’s maid, who is not very well, and hasn’t been in it for a good few hundred pages.
Now if Clarissa forgives you, I’ll think less of her, as I don’t want you to be happy. I had wanted her to end up marrying you, as a big ‘In your face’ to her horrible family, and live happily ever after, but not any more. Everyone else in the whole book is horrible and I don’t care if they all get TB, run over by carriages or die in a big fire. That has now become my idea of a happy ending.