Your dear letter was handed me this day, at a moment which, if
possible, increased its value. I have a little fever hanging about me,
which tends to depress my spirits for the time. Your moralizing
changed my dulness to a pleasing melancholy. I am mortified at the
interruption it met, and impatient to renew the theme; to renew it in
a more pleasing manner than even your letters afford. When my health
is ill, I find your absence insupportable; every evil haunts me. It is
the last that must take place till term; _that_ I must submit to. I am
pleased with your account of your health and spirits; they are both as
I wish.
When you write again, speak of your return. The uncertainty makes it
more irksome. The company you speak of will be as welcome as any at
this juncture; but my health and mind seem to require the calm
recreation of friendly sympathy; the heart that has long been united
to mine by the tenderest esteem and confidence, who has made every
little anxiety its own, to whom I can speak without reserve every
imaginary wo, and whose kind consolation shall appease those miseries
nature has imposed. But whatever present inconveniences may arise, I
submit to them with perfect resignation, rather than, even in idea, to
expect the one mentioned by you when last at home. My mind is
impressed with a perfect dread of all of that kind. We never can have
one to give us so little trouble as E.
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