_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]._
I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my
love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as
seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little
pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days
past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be
glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me,
and that I want to be soothed to peace.
One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to
me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would
be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a
duty to stifle them, when I imagine _that I am treated with coldness_.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of
your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there
is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly
depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look
forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
yet most affectionate