I went and sat among 'em all at my old 33 years desk yester morning; and deuce take me if I had not yearnings at leaving all my old pen and ink fellows, merry sociable lads, at leaving them in the Lurch, fag, fag, fag.
The comparison of my own superior felicity gave me any thing but pleasure.
B.B., I would not serve another 7 years for seven hundred thousand pounds!
I have got £441 net for life, sanctioned by Act of Parliament, with a provision for Mary if she survives me.
I will live another 50 years; or, if I live but 10, they will be thirty, reckoning the quantity of real time in them, i.e. the time that is a man's own.
Tell me how you like "Barbara S."—will it be received in atonement for the foolish Vision, I mean by the Lady?
Apropos, I never saw Mrs. Crawford in my life, nevertheless 'tis all true of Somebody.
Address me in future Colebrook Cottage, Islington.
I am really nervous (but that will wear off) so take this brief announcement.
Yours truly C.L.