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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 a 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.
I will not diſtreſs you by talking of the depreſſion of my ſpirits, or the ſtruggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to allow me to write with compoſure.—*****,—dear *****, —am I always to be toſſed about thus?—ſhall I never find an aſylum to reſt contented in? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a new world—cold and ſtrange!—every other day? Why do you not attach thoſe tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing elſe is only humanity, electrified by ſympathy.
I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours ſincerely and affectionately
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——— is playing near me in high ſpirits. She was ſo pleaſed with the noiſe of the mail-horn, ſhe has been continually imitating it.——Adieu!