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LETTER LXXV
London, November 27.
The letter, without an addreſs, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till juſt now.—I had thrown the letters aſide—I did not wiſh to look over a regiſter of ſorrow.
My not having ſeen it, will account for my having written to you with anger—under the impreſſion your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my ſufferings.
In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me ſo unfeeling," has almoſt overturned my reaſon; my mind is injured—I ſcarcely know where I am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for ſome cruel recollections never quit me, baniſhing almoſt every other) I labour to conceal in total ſolitude.—My life therefore is but an exerciſe of fortitude, continually on the ſtretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reaſon with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, "that I ſhall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, ſome time hence." But is it not poſſible that paſſion clouds your reaſon, as much as it does mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether thoſe principles are ſo "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be juſt to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have foſtered, and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you now ſeem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will ſee my pale face—and ſometimes the tears of anguiſh will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.