Wednesday.
January 14, 1846.
Was I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr. Kenyon? I well knew and felt the price I was about to pay – – but the thought did occur that he might have been informed my probable time of departure was that of his own arrival – – and that he would not know how very soon, alas, I should be obliged to go – – so . . . to save you any least embarrassment in the world, I got – – just that shake of the hand, just that look – – and no more! And was it all for nothing, all needless after all? So I said to myself all the way home.
When I am away from you – – a crowd of things press on me for utterance – – ‘I will say them, not write them,’ I think: – – when I see you – – all to be said seems insignificant, irrelevant, – – ‘they can be written, at all events’ – – I think that too. So, feeling so much, I say so little!
I have just returned from Town and write for the Post – – but you mean to write, I trust.
That was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with, as last time!
How are you? – – tell me, dearest; a long week is to be waited now!
Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba.
I am wholly your
R.