“I have read this book in your garden;--my love, you were absent, or
else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the
writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English
words, and others will not understand them,--which is the reason I have
not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of
him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book
which was yours, he could only think of love.
In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours--Amor
mio--is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here,
and I feel I shall exist hereafter,--to what purpose you will decide; my
destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and
two out of a convent. I love you, and you love me,--at least, you say
so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all
events.
But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me,
sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, --but they never will,
unless you wish it.”
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