Saturday Morning.
February 7, 1846.
Dearest, to my sorrow I must, I fear, give up the delight of seeing you this morning. I went out unwell yesterday, and a long noisy dinner with speech-making, with a long tiresome walk at the end of it – – these have given me such a bewildering headache that I really see some reason in what they say here about keeping the house. Will you forgive me – – and let me forget it all on Monday? On Monday – – unless I am told otherwise by the early post – – And God bless you ever
Your own – –