I rather hoped ... with no right at all ... to hear from you this morning or afternoon—to know how you are—that, 'how are you,' there is no use disguising, is,—vary it how one may—my own life's question.—
I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about you—the head; and that too, too warm hand ... or was it my fancy? Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory,—all seems to rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you do know that I know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone's counsel 'to be composed,' &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!
God bless you—
I am yours
R.B.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Tuesday Night.
[Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]
Before you leave London, I will answer your letter—all my attempts end in nothing now—
Dearest friend—I am yours ever
R.B.