_[London, Nov. 1795] 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 seems 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.