Whether he sees it or not I cannot tell; I rather think he does, because he has been less here, and more guarded in his manner when here, than before this matrimonial affair was put an end to; which is natural enough on that supposition, because he knows the impertinence of Quebec, and is both prudent and delicate to a great degree.
He comes, however, and we are pretty good company, only a little more reserved on both sides; which is, in my opinion, a little symptomatic.
La! here’s papa come up to write at my bureau; I dare say, it’s only to pry into what I am about; but excuse me, my dear Sir, for that. Adieu! jusqu’au demain, ma tres chere.
Yours,
A. Fermor.
LETTER LXXI.71.
To Miss Rivers, Clarges Street.
Quebec, Feb. 20.
Every hour, my Lucy, convinces me more clearly there is no happiness for me without this lovely woman; her turn of mind is so correspondent to my own, that we seem to have but one soul: the first moment I saw her the idea struck me that we had been friends in some pre-existent state, and were only renewing our acquaintance here; when she speaks, my heart vibrates to the sound, and owns every thought she expresses a native there.
The same dear affections, the same tender sensibility, the most precious gift of Heaven, inform our minds, and make us peculiarly capable of exquisite happiness or misery.
The passions, my Lucy, are common to all; but the affections, the lively sweet affections, the only sources of true pleasure, are the portion only of a chosen few.