PARIS, _June 26, 1870_.
DEAR FRIEND: I have been ill for a month. It is impossible for me to do
anything, even read. I am a great sufferer, and have little hope. This
may endure, perhaps, a long time.
I have put one of the shelves of my library in order, and am keeping for
you the _Lettres de Madame de Sévigné_, in twelve volumes, and a small
Shakespeare. When you return to Paris I will send them to you. I thank
you for thinking of me.