Ah! Great God! What emotion! What surprise! Under a cover in an unknown hand, a letter from my Lord Ossory – Yes, from him – It is his hand – My God! It is from him! – From whence comes it? – Who brought it? – How! – Where-fore! – He write to me again! – To me? – What would he with me? – My hand trembles – My pen drops from my fingers – I must take breath. –

They cannot tell me from whence this letter comes. A man on horseback gave it to one of my servants, whom he enquired for – Can Lord Ossory be in this country? – Behold me like a fool; like one distracted – Like – But to what can I be compared but to myself – I cannot write – My head is disordered – O, my dear, if you could see me – That letter – It distracts me.

Alas! What is become of that happy time, when the sight of that writing would have melted my heart with softness? At present, it terrifies me – It gives me disorder inexpressible – O, my dear Henrietta! Why am I not with you! Why cannot I repose in your bosom, the pangs I feel! They are so exquisite, they are of such a kind – I cannot describe them; but I sink under them.

What power has this man over me? I once believed he had that of making me happy: he has lost that, he has lost it voluntarily – Must he then still retain the cruel power of afflicting me? – I wish to hide myself, to forget myself, to lose my very being – This letter – I know not what to do. How unhappy am I! When time seemed to have weakened my tender sentiments, and diminished my chagrin, this ingrate returns to town, his caprice excites him to see me; and when, to avoid him, I leave all who are most dear to me, he torments me even here; he writes to me: he has the cruelty to write to me.