You are afraid your letters are long, that they tire me: You, my dear Henrietta, to think you can tire me? Be assured, that, absent from you, my only amusement is to read those amiable letters. The sentiment which makes them dear to me, will never produce sorrow in my soul; my tears will never efface those beloved characters: I shall never remember with shame the pleasure I feel in reading them – Alas! who could have foretold me that those, from whence I once received so pure a joy, I should now not dare – When I received them, I was happy, so happy, that all those blessings, which others esteem, seemed to me nothing, to those I hoped to possess – What a change did a day, an hour, a moment, make in my fate! – That letter, that fatal inexplicable letter – The perfidious, to swear to me that he adored me, to explore my pity! – Ah! my dear, I cannot forget him – No, I cannot! What I have wrote to my Lord Castle-Cary has given new life to that sincere, that ardent, tenderness, which nothing can ever destroy. I have struggled against the shame of yielding to the extreme weakness of my heart. My pride has supported me in this painful effort. I believed I might depend on my reason; I flattered myself – Vain hope! I can never cease to think of Lord Ossory. His absence makes me wretched: from whence comes this? Do I then think he ought to be sensible of mine? Can I suppose my disdain has not disengaged him? Was it to be followed that I fled? Have I the meanness to desire it? – Alas! I know not; but I did imagine he would have seen Lord Castle-Cary, that he would have endeavoured to see you – I am become fantastical, unjust: when he is mentioned to me, I am angry; when he is not, I am afflicted. In desiring to see me, he irritates me: he desists, his neglect displeases, it offends me. My God! is this your friend, is this a woman of sense, who is so inconsistent with herself? My good, my tender friend, love me for us both, for I sincerely hate myself.