I desert a moment to tell you that I am
wholly yours.
6 o'clock P. M., 19th May.
Since I wrote you at two o'clock our court is adjourned till nine
to-morrow. We go on briskly and in great good nature. If you were half
as punctual or as fortunate (which shall I call it?), I should
absolutely fancy myself talking with you. It would be some
indemnification for the distance and vexation. Make up in thinking of
me, and taking care of yourself, what you omit in writing. Thine at
all moments.
9 o'clock at night, 19th May.
A thousand thanks for your dear affectionate letter of Tuesday
evening. I was just sitting pensively and half complaining of your
remissness, when your letter is received and dispels every gloomy
thought. I write this from the impulse of my feelings, and in
obedience to your injunctions, having no opportunity in view.
The letters of our dear children are a feast. Every part of them is
pleasing and interesting. Le Jenne is not expected to be in New-York
for some weeks at least. I avoid the subject. I shudder at the idea of
suffering any thing to mar the happiness I promise myself.
There is no possibility of my return till the middle of next week. In
one of my letters I put it to the last of next week, but we have this
day made unexpected progress. If we are equally fortunate and equally
good-natured, we may finish Wednesday night; but this is conjecture,
and perhaps my impatience makes me too sanguine.
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