I would much prefer having tea with you on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and telling you that I love you, my dear papa, to being reduced to writing it to you. The way one says, I love you; the tone one uses; a glance: these things express so much, and so quickly—to convey all of that in writing is difficult, impossible! Nevertheless I have only the resource of writing to remind you that out in the country you have left the woman who is the most sincerely attached to you. I leave it to your heart to guess what my letter will convey badly, or too feebly. We lead a peaceful life here; with occupation and liberty, it is impossible to grow bored; but if one has a tender soul, not an instant goes by when one is unaware of being far off from one’s friends. Oh my dear papa, if ever you leave us for good, I will be truly wretched … but let us dismiss that thought; you love us, you are with us; perhaps you will come and spend a few more moments in my humble cottage; yes, you will come, to make us perfectly happy, especially if you yourself are perfectly happy when you are with us; it is so pleasant for me to look after you, to amuse you, to try to please you; my papa, the weather is still lovely, won’t you come back, won’t you write me a word in French—for in English I would feel worse than Tantalus? Of all hungers, the hunger for friendship seems to me hardest to bear. Farewell, my lovable papa, love me as much as you wish; I will return your love as much as you wish. I have the honor to be your very humble and very obedient servant