I am not half such a little rascal as you suppose; the best feelings only have detained me from you; and feelings better than the best will bring me back to you. I must be more or less than woman to resist tenderness, goodness, excellence, like yours, and I am simply woman, aye, dear, “every inch a woman.” I feel a little kind of tingling about the heart, at once more feeling myself nestled in yours; do you remember—well, dear, if you don’t, I will soon revive your recollection—I said I would not write to you to-day, but I could not resist it, and I am now going off to a man of business, and about Lady Abercorn’s books, in the midst of the snow and pinched with cold. God bless you, love.
Your song is charming; you are a clever wretch, and I love you more for your talents than your virtues, you thing of the world. What put it into your stupid head that I would not return at Christmas? did I ever say so, blockhead?
Well, I have only the old story to tell, no more than yourself—
“And I loves you, and you loves
me, And oh! how happy we shall be.” |
| BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. | 471 |
