My reflections were interrupted by my servant, who brought me a letter from George Brummell, full of nonsensical vows and professions. ‘When,’ he wrote, ‘beautiful Harriette, will you admit me into your house? Why so obstinately refuse my visits? Tell me, I do entreat you when I may but throw myself at your feet, without fear of derision from a public homage on the pavement, or dislocation from the passing hackney-coaches!’ The rest I have forgotten.
Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs (120).
You may hold all the cards now, Harriette darling, but both you and Brummell — the Regency’s greatest courtesan and it’s greatest dandy — will die alone and penniless in France. Life’s funny like that.