I am dull. I meant to write you a long letter, but somehow I can't.
Farewell until to-morrow.
December 13th.
What will you be thinking of me? Your silence is almost more
unbearable than a letter of reproach would be; I had not realised
until I found the above fragment in my desk just now, how miserably
long it is since last I wrote to you. Write to me, my dearest; I
need to feel your love. I think I am not very well just now; you
must forgive me, yet don't be anxious on my account. I don't feel
very well, that's all; there is nothing the matter with me. Neither
is there anything to tell you; all goes on as usual. Gabriel is
well.
Oh, my pretty Constance, I cannot write! I shall send off this
miserable scrap, and write again very soon.
Your poor fool,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXI.
December 18th.
Thank Heaven that you are here, in the world; I should die if you
were not. Let me think, where shall I begin? At the end; that is
nearest.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81