To Miss Fermor.
Monday evening.
Surely I am the weakest of my weak sex; I am ashamed to tell you all
my feelings: I cannot conquer my dislike to Madame Des Roches: she
said a thousand obliging things to me, she praised my Rivers; I made
her no answer, I even felt tears ready to start; what must she think of
me? there is a meanness in my jealousy of her, which I cannot forgive
myself.
I cannot account for her attention to me, it is not natural; she
behaved to me not only with politeness, but with the appearance of
affection; she seemed to feel and pity my confusion. She is either the
most artful, or the most noble of women.
Adieu!
Your
Emily.