Why, if such content can be, is it not universal? Why is not every
face I meet stamped with a similar joy? I lay awake long last night,
thinking of you. I do not look upon you as actually unhappy, that is
not in your nature, you sunbeam, yet you lack in your dear life the
best light, that of another's shedding. Now that I know what it is
to be loved, I look upon the blankness of your existence with
dismay.
No more to-day, but I shall write again soon, I promise.
Yours ever and always,
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXIII.
GRAYSMILL, March 5th.
Thank you, sweet one, for the eight dear pages. I feel ashamed of
the scrap I sent you the day before yesterday. I never felt so lazy
in my life as I feel now. One thing is certain, happiness is not
altogether good. Blake says somewhere, "Damn braces, bless relaxes."
Perhaps he was right.
I am losing myself completely. Every time I part from him I feel
that he has taken yet a little more of me away. He absorbs me, heart
and soul.
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