You have withdrawn that innocent familiarity in public of which I foolishly complained; and in private you are become still more severe: you are so ingeniously cruel, that your complaisance is as intolerable as your refusal. Were it possible for you to conceive how much your indifference affects me, you would certainly think my punishment too rigorous. What would I not give to recall that unfortunate letter, and that I had born my former sufferings without complaint! So fearful am I of adding to my offence, that I should never have ventured to write a second letter, if I did not flatter myself with the hopes of expiating the crime I committed in the first. Will you deem it any satisfaction if I confess that I mistook my own intention? or shall I protest that I never was in love with you?----O! no; I can never be guilty of such a horrid perjury! The heart which is impressed with your fair image must not be polluted with a lye. If I am doomed to be unhappy----be it so. I cannot stoop to any thing mean or deceitful to extenuate my fault. My pen refuses to disavow the transgression of which my heart is but too justly accused. Methinks I already feel the weight of your indignation, and await its final consequence as a favour which I have some right to expect; for the passion which consumes me deserves to be punished, but not despised. For heaven’s sake, do not leave me to myself; condescend, at least, to determine my fate; deign to let me know your pleasure. I will obey implicitly whatever you think proper to command. Do you impose eternal silence? I will be silent as the grave. Do you banish me your presence? I swear that I will never see you more. Will my death appease you? that would be, of all, the least difficult. There are no terms which I am not ready to subscribe, unless they should enjoin me not to love you; yet even in that I would obey you if it were possible. A hundred times a day I am tempted to throw myself at your feet, bathe them with my tears, and to implore your pardon, or receive my death: but a sudden terror damps my resolution; my trembling knees want power to bend; my words expire upon my lips, and my soul finds no support against the dread of offending you. Was ever mortal in so terrible a situation! My heart is but too sensible of its offence, yet cannot cease to offend: my crime and my remorse conspire in its agitation, and, ignorant of my destiny, I am cruelly suspended between the hope of your compassion and the fear of punishment.