O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot
tell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature
informs me you are?
But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: and yet, if
it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!—But
what have I to do to upbraid?—You may well be tired of me!—And if you
are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: and all my own
relations were tired of me long before you were.
How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!—But how I
ramble!
I sat down to say a great deal—my heart was full—I did not know what to
say first—and thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poor head) I
cannot tell what—and thought, and grief and confusion, came crowding so
thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first; all would be
first; so I can write nothing at all.—Only that, whatever they have
done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was—in any one
thing did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,