Now don't deny it; it sounds silly in you. It is, all of a piece
with the earnest declaration of the mother who is managing her
daughters through Saratoga, Newport, and an endless round of
parties, but who constantly declares, in the most earnest way, that
she has no more girls than she wants, that she could not consent to
part with a single one of them, and who, at length, when pressed to
part with dear Arabella, gives a reluctant and painful assent, and
who may be seen on the wedding day penetrated with inconsolable
grief at parting with that dear child. Girls, don't join in this
farce; it is too thin.
You want husbands. You think of them by day, and dream of them by
night. You talk of nothing else. Think on, and dream on; even if you
never get them, it will make you better and nobler to think about
them.
On our side of the house we are all thinking and dreaming of you,
and, although we may never marry, our hearts will be the warmer and
purer for having been occupied with thoughts of you.