If you are in London when I get thither, you will see me soon. My
charmer is a little better than she was: her eyes show it; and her
harmonious voice, hardly audible last time I saw her, now begins to
cheer my heart once more. But yet she has no love--no sensibility!
There is no addressing her with those meaning, yet innocent freedoms
(innocent, at first setting out, they may be called) which soften others
of her sex. The more strange this, as she now acknowledges preferable
favour for me; and is highly susceptible of grief. Grief mollifies,
and enervates. The grieved mind looks round it, silently implores
consolation, and loves the soother. Grief is ever an inmate with joy.
Though they won't show themselves at the same window at one time; yet
they have the whole house in common between them.