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it my fault, if, notwithstanding the years I have passed, and the misfortunes I have suffered, I still preserve the illusions of a soul characterised by sensibility? It is for you I write; I imagine I am ſpeaking to you, that you are listening to my history, filled as it is with tiresome repetitions, with that sweetcomplacency which renders you so dear to your friends and valuable to society. Alas! it is with the deepest regret I tear myself from the agreeable chimera.
But to resume my subject:
I was informed that an elderly lady wished to see my apartments, and that she was waiting there for me. It has ever been my principle to express the
