No, my dear papa, your visits have never caused me any trouble; all those who surround me respect you and love you, and feel honored by the friendship you grant us. Because I was informed of it, I told you that certain criticisms had been uttered by persons whom I meet in society concerning the kind of familiarity that reigns between us. I despise the back-biters and am at peace with myself. But that is not enough: one must submit to what is called propriety (the word varies in every century, in every land!). Though I may not sit upon your knee so often, it certainly will not be because I love you less; our hearts will be neither more nor less pure, but we shall have shut the mouths of evil speakers, and that is no small feat, even for a sage.

You ask me whether my illness was only bodily; my soul, my papa, always has some share in the trouble. Born with excessive sensitivity, your daughter is often the victim of an overly tender soul and an overly active imagination. Reason and occupation sustain her when she is in good health; ill, she finds herself in the grip of suffering and melancholy. I was violently seized by this last attack; I am still in pain, and quite weak. I am in extreme need of being loved, especially of being loved by you. Come to tea tomorrow, come every Wednesday and Saturday, come as often as you like. My heart summons you, awaits you, is attached to you for life. Farewell, I have not told you half of what I would tell you, but my head is too tired for me to write any more.