Turn the key in the door; let no thought of me return; be done with the poor ghost that pretended he was a man and stole your love.

Scorn of myself grinds in me as I write.

I should tell you I am well and happy, and want for nothing.

I do not exactly make money, or I should send a remittance; but I am well cared for, have friends, live in a beautiful place and climate, such as we have dreamed of together, and no pity need be wasted on me.

In such places, you understand, it is easy to live, and live well, but often hard to make sixpence in money.