I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours.
* * * *
LETTER XLI.
Wednesday.
I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
God bless you!
* * * *
LETTER XLII.
—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.