ear to leave her. O God! God! God!
Everything I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
The silk lining she put in my travelling-cap scalds my head.
My imagination is horribly vivid about her,— I see her, I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment.
This was the case when I was in England; I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again,— now! —O that I could be buried near where she lives!
I am afraid to write to her, to receive a letter from her,— to see her handwriting would break my heart.
Even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear.
My dear Brown, what am I to do?
Where can I look for consolation or ease?
If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your