“My dear Friend.—The
passage in your last kind letter that related to the subject of self-reproach
was rather out of season. It has dwelt upon my mind ever since. My wife is now dead. She died this morning at
eight o’clock. She grew worse before your letter arrived. Nobody has a
greater call to reproach himself,
| 276 | WILLIAM GODWIN |
“I firmly believe that there does not exist her equal in the world. I know from experience we were formed to make each other happy. I have not the least expectation that I can now ever know happiness again.
“When you come to town, look at me, and talk to me, but do not—if you can help it—exhort me, or console me.
