Juliet, I am thunderstruck. Read the enclosed letter,
and tell me, candidly, if I am to blame. I wrote to you
yesterday, but to-day's post has brought me this; and,
full of trepidation and uneasiness, I hasten to communicate
to you, that---no---no, Juliet, you are now a married
woman, and I cannot deal so freely with you, as I used.
A strange thought just occurred to me; but, I must
watch this tendency to the romantick; it will make me
ridiculous some day or other. I look at it, again. I compare
it. There is, certainly, a resemblance in the writing.
But, what writing? Indeed, my dear, I cannot
tell you; unless, by some chance, I should meet this Mr.
Randolph, again; when, I am determined to know who and
what he is. Behold his letter. I have not answered it,
of course; and I had opened it, before I suspected that
it was his; or, most assuredly, I should have returned it
to him, at once, in a blank envelope. But, I had read
it; and, after reading it, that would have been affectation
and cruelty. No, I could not so rebuke him, now. I
might, at first; but I should not dare to do it, now, without
deep consideration. Perhaps he took my last words
as a hint to write to me—but I hope not.