But no--I did not forgive. Where was the fault to be forgiven, except
in _me_, for not being right in my meaning?
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday.
[Post-mark, December 12, 1845.]
And now, my heart's love, I am waiting to hear from you; my heart is
_full_ of you. When I try to remember what I said yesterday, _that_
thought, of what fills my heart--only _that_ makes me bear with the
memory.... I know that even such imperfect, poorest of words _must_
have come _from_ thence if not bearing up to you all that is
there--and I know you are ever above me to receive, and help, and
forgive, and _wait_ for the one day which I will never say to myself
cannot come, when I shall speak what I feel--more of it--or _some_ of
it--for now nothing is spoken.