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LETTERS.
compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent subjects. — —
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I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out what you mean to say—You write, I suppose, at Mr. 's after dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse when you mention, the child.—Adieu!
LETTER
