I hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to
have embraced you once again. Your face is the kindest I have ever
seen: even your silence, while I looked at you, seemed a grace instead
of a cruelty. What kindness, I say to myself, even if it be mistaken
kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth!
Oh, if I could see once into the brain of it all! No one but myself knows
how good you are: how can I, then, be so unworthy of you? Did you think I
would not surrender to anything you fixed, that you severed us so
completely, not even allowing us to meet, and giving me no way to come
back to you though I might come to be all that you wished? Ah, dear face,
how hungry you have made me!--the more that I think you are not yet so
happy as I could wish,--as I could make you,--I say it foolishly:--yet if
you would trust me, I am sure.
Oh, how tired loving you now makes me! physically I grow weary with the
ache to have you in my arms. And I dream, I dream always, the shadows of
former kindness that never grow warm enough to clasp me before I
wake.--Yours, dearest, waking or sleeping.
LETTER LXIII.
Do you remember, Beloved, when you came on your birthday, you said I was
to give you another birthday present of your own choosing, and I promised?
And it was that we were to do for the whole day what _I_ wished: you were
not to be asked to choose.
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