This is a useful edition of a book with perhaps more historical importance than literary merit. As a proto-feminist novel deploring the hypocritical social standards about female chastity (once tainted never redeemable, according to the book and to a large extent according to history), regardless of how said chastity is lost, this novel raised legitimate questions about the plight of women (or genteel ones, anyway; it is hard to read in 2016 a book in which the deplorable social conditions affecting genteel women are coupled with the protagonist's own horror and repugnance at the mere thought of falling into--ugh!--servitude, without rolling one's eyes at least a little bit), but it does so in a rather ham-fisted and implausible way. It is a polemical novel with a clear thesis, so it is perhaps not surprising that it games the situation to maximize the plight and suffering of our narrator/protagonist Mary, but the third time (in a book of only about 200 pages) that her apparent rescue from a life of degradation is cut short by the untimely death of a benefactor (two actually, in the third instance) is at least one time too many. Hays seems to want to insist on the unwavering rectitude and moral probity (one childhood incident excepted) of her heroine and her inevitable destruction at the metaphorical hands of a mostly uncaring and evidently malicious society. She does so by effectively stripping Mary of agency, of making almost every key plot development depend on either a coincidence (and again, after three or four of these in a row, the device begins to pall), apparent active malignancy (of a remarkably persistent and pertinacious kind by the villain, who seems willing to devote--on and off, anyway--literally years to the persecution of our poor heroine), or a combination of both. Nothing here is impossible, of course, but I think Hays might have made a better case if she had opted for rather more plausible plot devices. Most eye-rolling, perhaps, is when Mary not only takes up residence on the estate of her rapist/persecutor (admittedly, the succour of the providently arriving saviour in this instance pretty much necessitates her doing so--though that in itself is a fairly obvious plot contrivance) but also seems insensible to the possibility that wandering around on the property is a very good way to increase the likelihood of running into him. Hays's depiction of this fellow is also problematic. Since we only ever see through Mary's eyes, it is perhaps not surprising that he comes across as flat and as, essentially, opaque in motivation, but Hays's choice to make him repeatedly offer Mary various sorts of redress for the crime he committed against her (including in one instance a full payment of debts she owes, with no strings attached--or so he claims) is . . . well, bizarre. Mary's refusal to accept some of these--e.g. his repeated offers of marriage--is completely understandable, and presumably her refusal even to let him pay her debts is designed to reinforce her absolute moral purity, but if so, that device is less successful. As a result of how the story is told, it is difficult to determine how genuine either his affection or remorse is, and whether much of what happens to Mary emerges from accident or design (though Hays seems to intimate design, there is no way to be sure). Again, perhaps this is part of Hays's intention, to focus narrowly on the consequences of being raped for Mary rather than on other matters, but if so, again, for me it is not a successful device. Perhaps the clearest reflection of this is in the selection of contemporary reviews, one of which does not even seem to recognize that the rape is in fact the genuinely significant moment, not Mary's insufficiently doctrinaire conformity to Christian piety. Bad/imperceptive reviewer? Undoubtedly. Nevertheless, one must wonder whether, had the book been less thesis-driven and more plausibility-driven, such a review would have been impossible.