I pray you, remember, in judging me, that you are you and that I am but a woman by whom the good or evil of life is reckoned in the measure of her love; her joy or misery being only a matter of down weight or light weight more in the love she gives than in that which she receives.

Remember, also, that in this letter I must condense when I might easily be prolix, and that after all is written, probably I shall have left unsaid the very thing I most wished to say.

But these three words will tell it all and bear repeating: I love you.
"FRANCES." And this from my sensible cousin! What would it be if her heart were not balanced by a wise head?
Our letters being written, I became alarmed about posting them in London, not knowing when a messenger would start for France, nor who he would be.
The next day Frances and I talked it over, and she suggested that as the king and most of the court were about to visit Bath for a season, and as neither she nor I cared to go, we should take the letters to Dover, cross to Calais, and post them in France.
I sprang at the idea, but immediately sprang back, saying: "But it is not entirely proper for us to travel to Calais together, even though you are my sister-cousin." "We may take father," she suggested.

"Sarah wants to visit Lady St.
Albans, and she can go if we take father with us.

And, Baron Ned; I have another suggestion to offer.