Monday Morning.
I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that
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But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.
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My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness. You are now perfectly free.—