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1773] years I have so weighed and estimated those who judge that I dare not tell you the contempt I have for opinion. I do not wish to brave it, and that is all. There is a passion that closes the soul to all the miseries which torture the people of the great world; I have the sad experience of it. A great woe kills all the rest. There is but one interest, one pleasure, one misfortune, and a single judge for me in all creation. Oh! no, I am not petty. Reflect that I hold to life at one point only; if it escapes me, I shall die. From this inward conviction, profound and permanent, you can readily believe that all else is annihilated for me. I know not by what fatality—or what good fortune—I became susceptible of a new affection: searching within myself I can neither find nor explain its cause; but, such as it is, its effects have brought sweetness to my life. It seems to me an astounding thing that my sorrows should interest you; it proves to me the goodness, the sensibility of your heart. I reproach myself, just now, for the remorse I have felt in yielding to my penchant for you: sorrow makes one severe to one's self; I feel guilty for the good you do me. Is it now, or was it then that I made myself illusions? On my honour I do not know. But you, whose soul is not convulsed by trouble, you can judge me better; and when I see you, you will tell me if I ought to rejoice or despair at the feelings you inspire within me.—I received yesterday news of him which alarms me; his health does not improve; he is perpetually threatened by a fatal attack from which he has been twice at death's door within a year; how is it possible that he should live? Adieu; send me news of yourself.

Monday, August 16, 1773.

I open my letter to tell you how conscious I am of your kindness in being so uneasy at receiving no letter from me.