Arriving in London, my senses were intoxicated.

I ran from street to street, from theater to theater, and the women of the town (again I must beg pardon for my habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.
"A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late to the hotel in which I had lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked down in a private street, and hurried, in a state of insensibility, into a coach, which brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to be treated like one who had lost them.

My keepers are deaf to my remonstrances and enquiries, yet assure me that my confinement shall not last long.

Still I cannot guess, though I weary myself with conjectures, why I am confined, or in what part of England this house is situated.

I imagine sometimes that I hear the sea roar, and wished myself again on the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you."* A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative, when Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the "never ending, still beginning," task of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice, and feeling them reverberate on her heart.
* The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former instance, appears to have been an after-thought of the author.