And now I wish that I had never seen him, that all these days of joy
were wiped out of my life; for the joy is turned to misery and pain,
and for this there can be no cure. If he grew to love me as I do
him, it would be unearthly; such happiness is not for this world. I
think that if he loved me, one of us would surely die. This is the
world, O Constance! Bursts of beauty, bursts of bliss, but none to
live untouched, none to endure.
I have been happy; I should not groan.
Write to me, dear.
Your EMILIA.
LETTER XXII.
GRAYSMILL, December 29th.
You must hear from me once again this year, my Constance. Oh,
dearest, dearest, it has only come to me of late, when my love for
you has shone dimly compared to another, what it is worth to me,
your love. I cannot express myself; I am all entangled, hopeless.
But what I mean is this: you have been one long joy to me, a sun
that has had no setting. I would I were as I used to be, untouched
by the knowledge that love can be hard pain.
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