[Postmark: September 4, 1846]
Thursday Afternoon.
When I had finished that letter this morning, dearest dearest, before I could seal it, even, (my sister did it for me . . and despatched it to the post at once) I became quite ill and so sick as to be forced to go up-stairs and throw myself on the bed. It is now six o’clock, and I feel better, and have some thoughts of breaking my fast to-day – but, first of all . . did whatever it may have been I wrote seem cross – unnecessarily angry, to you, dearest Ba? Because, I confess to having felt indignant at this sample of the evils done under the sun every day . . . and as if it would be to no purpose though the whole world were peopled with Ba’s, instead of just Wimpole Street ; as they would be just so many more soft cushions for the villainously-disposed to run pins into at their pleasure. Donne says that ‘ Weakness invites, but silence feasts oppression.’ And it is horrible to fancy how all the oppressors in their several ranks may, if they choose, twitch back to them by the heartstrings after various modes the weak and silent whose secret they have found out. No one should profit by those qualities in me, at least. Having formed a resolution, I would keep it, I hope, through fire and water, and the threatener of any piece of rascality, who (as commonly happens) should be without the full heart to carry it into effect, should pay me exactly the same for the threat . . which had determined my conduct once and for ever. But in this particular case, I ought to have told you (unless you divined it, as you might) that I would give all I am ever to be worth in the world to get back your Flush for you – for your interest is not mine, any more than the lake is the river that goes to feed it, – mine is only made to feed yours – I am yours, as we say – as I feel more and more every minute.
Are you not mine, too ? And do you not forgive your own R