Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he was
detained by business. It commenced, “My dearest love, return as soon as
possible: I await you with a thousand raptures.” A friend who arrived, brought
word, that, for certain reasons, he could not return immediately. Charlotte’s
letter was not forwarded, and the same evening it fell into my hands. I read it,
and smiled. She asked the reason. “What a heavenly treasure is imagination:” I
exclaimed; “I fancied for a moment that this was written to me.” She paused, and
seemed displeased. I was silent.
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