[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night.

I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.—You ask “If I am well or tranquil?”—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.—

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finished.—It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

Mary.

Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.