At such times--in such moods as these--it is my nature to seek repose in
some calm tranquil idea, and I have now summoned up your image to give me
rest. There you sit, upright and still in your black dress, and white
scarf, and pale marble-like face--just like reality. I wish you would
speak to me. If we should be separated--if it should be our lot to live
at a great distance, and never to see each other again--in old age, how I
should conjure up the memory of my youthful days, and what a melancholy
pleasure I should feel in dwelling on the recollection of my early
friend! . . . I have some qualities that make me very miserable, some
feelings that you can have no participation in--that few, very few,
people in the world can at all understand. I don't pride myself on these
peculiarities. I strive to conceal and suppress them as much as I can;
but they burst out sometimes, and then those who see the explosion
despise me, and I hate myself for days afterwards . . . I have just
received your epistle and what accompanied it. I can't tell what should
induce you and your sisters to waste your kindness on such a one as me.
I'm obliged to them, and I hope you'll tell them so. I'm obliged to you
also, more for your note than for your present. The first gave me
pleasure, the last something like pain.
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