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?Your letter came this morning. I own I am troubled about its contents: I fear for your health, dear friend, in such an ordeal as that to which you propose to subject yourself. Be wise, for all people?s sakes; and if there be real fear, as I imagine, for your precious life, rather front the ugliest alternative.?
?I got a quiet seat behind a yew hedge and went away into a meditation. It [i.e. the windswept scene in the garden at Swanston Cottage] somehow reminded me of your letter from Bishopsbourne, now alas! in cinders. O I grudge those letters I burned.?