Iam this day, my dear aunt, three-and-twenty years old; and I cannot celebrate my birth-day better than in conversing with you; but, when I think, that for these three long years I have been separated from you, and that I shall still be deprived of the happiness of seeing you for another twelvemonth, my heart is very melancholy … The only thing which I receive consolation from is the thought of having conducted myself at this distance from you in the same manner as if you was always with me; in short, the having exactly followed the rules you gave me, and the advice which you have constantly pointed out to me in your letters, those dear letters in which I find so much to make me amends for the distance which is between us. You will never be told on your return to Paris, that your child is guilty of coquetry; this odious vice, for which you have given me so just and so serious an aversion. I have never turned the brain of any one, and I can even boast, that it has never been said, that any person has fallen in love with me. It is true, I have followed your advice, and always preserved a proper behaviour, with that mild tranquillity which you recommended to me; that I have made use of no arts, and have never gone into company by myself, that is, without my mother-in-law, till within these two years; and almost always with Mons. d’ Ostalis: that I never received company at my own house till last year, and that those I associate with are very sensible as well as reasonable people; that I neither go to Balls nor Operas, nor ride on horseback: and therefore it is not astonishing, that I should have preserved my reputation without blemish. This is a cause of great happiness to me, and I value it at too high a price not to endeavour to keep it.