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 seem to suit the habit of my mind.—
Have but a little patience and I will remove myself where it will not be
necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other
medium—that the affair is finished. It is an insult to me to suppose,
that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear
nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.
Even your seeing me has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
distracted mind.