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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.—God bleſs you.
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LETTER LXXIII
Saturday Night.
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderneſs to me.—You aſk "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me ſo, muſt want a heart to eſtimate my feelings by.—I chuſe then to be the organ of my own ſentiments.
I muſt tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary aſſiſtance—and, conſidering your going to the new houſe, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will ſooner periſh than receive any thing from you—and I ſay this at the moment when I am diſappointed in my firſt attempt to obtain a temporary ſupply. But this even pleaſes me; an accumulation of diſappointments and miſfortunes ſeems to ſuit the habit of my mind.—
