thinking upon some other subject, perhaps totally foreign to what
mine were employed upon. I have attempted to reconcile these
contradictions, by admitting, that your love was not of person,
or of the common kind; but that it was an exceƒs of esteem and
friendship — a love of the mind. But is not mine of this description,
and do I feel this apparent indifference? In truth, I will not say
that it is exactly of this description; I fear that a more common
kind of love was getting poƒseƒsion of me. The love of the qualities
of thy head and heart — a philosophic love, which I had flattered
myself that mine was, became reinforced by another; and between
them, I had near been carried beyond the bounds of reason and
prudence. I do not mean to flatter thee Annette, but thy person
does much exceed my expectation of it. I will not call thy coun-
-tenance handsome, or can I say whether thy eyes have much ex-
-preƒsion or not, I could so seldom meet them. Why, my dear friend,
wast thou so silent? Thou didst not just return me answers to
questions put. Thou offered nothing for me to consider. Thou
asked me no question. Thou seemed to wish no conversation upon
the subject that I was so interested about. Then how art thou
"ardent, sanguine"? — Ah Annette, 'tis I, a pretender to reason,
who am ardent and sanguine; my feelings indeed are almost
too powerful for me. If thou hadst that love for me, that I
was induced to suppose, thou art indeed a stoic philosopher
— one before whom I ought to fall down in reverence, and beg
instruction from.
    Excuse every thing here, my dear dear friend — tears are in