_Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._
I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is
still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I
am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire
phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood
into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go badly with
me_.--And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am
urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born
tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater
part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the
fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have
promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it,
will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could
not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.--I am afraid to
read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye.
I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
uneasiness.--If you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, I do
not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for
I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into
them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours sincerely
MARY.