Here endeth the epistle: the elect salutes you. This week, if the

authorities permit, I shall be paying you a flying visit, with wings

full of eyes,--and, I hope, healing; for I believe you are seedy, and

that that is what is behind it. You notice I have not complained.

Dearest, how could I! My happiness reaches to the clouds--that is, to

where things are not quite clear at present. I love you no more than I

ought: yet far more than I can name. Good-night and good-morning.--Your

star, since you call me so.




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