February 7, 1846.
The clock strikes – – three; and I am here, not with you – – and my ‘fractious’ headache at the very worst got suddenly better just now, and is leaving me every minute – – as if to make me aware, with an undivided attention, that at this present you are waiting for me, and soon will be wondering – – and it would be so easy now to dress myself and walk or run or ride – – do anything that led to you . . . but by no haste in the world could I reach you, I am forced to see, before a quarter to five – – by which time I think my letter must arrive. Dear, dearest Ba, did you but know how vexed I am – – with myself, with – – this is absurd, of course. The cause of it all was my going out last night – – yet that, neither, was to be helped, the party having been twice put off before – – once solely on my account. And the sun shines, and you would shine – –
Monday is to make all the amends in its power, is it not? Still, still I have lost my day.
Bless you, my ever-dearest.
Your R.