An Englishwoman's Love-Letters

o make me wake happy. There are dreams that go out like candle-light directly one opens the shutters: they illumine the walls no longer; the daylight is too strong for them. So, now, I can hardly remember anything of my dreams : daylight, with you in it, floods them out. Oh, how are you ? Awake ? Up ? Have you breakfasted ? I ask you a thousand things. You are thinking of me, I know : but what are you thinking ?I am devoured by curiosity about myself ?none at all about you, whom I have all by heart! If I might only know how happy I make you, and just which thing I said yesterday is making you laugh to-day?I could cry with joy over being the person I am. It is you who make me think so much about myself, trying to find myself out. I used to be most self-possessed, and regarded it as the crowning virtue: and now?your possession of me sweeps it away, and I stand crying to be let into a secret that is no longer mine. Shall I ever know why you love me ? It is my religious difficulty ; but it never rises into a doubt. You do love me, I know. Why, I don't think I ever can know. Yet ask me the same question about yourself, and it becomes absurd, because I altogether belong to you. If I hold my breath for a moment wickedly (for I can't do it breathing), and try to look at the world with you out of it, I seem to have fallen over a precipice; or rather, the solid earth has slipped from under my feet, and I am off into vacuum. Then, as I take breath again for fear, my...