to think of going to Paris again; indeed Robert begins to be nervous
about me--which is nonsense, but natural enough perhaps.

In regard to Colwall, you are both, my very dear friends, the kindest
that you can be. Ah, but dearest, dearest Mrs. Martin, you can
_understand_, with the same kindness that you use to me in other things.
There is only one event in my life which never loses its bitterness;
which comes back on me like a retreating wave, going and coming again,
which was and _is my grief--I never had but one brother who loved and
comprehended me_. And so there is just one thought which would be
unbearable if I went into your neighbourhood; and you won't set it down,
I am sure, as unpardonable weakness, much less as affectation, if I
confess to you that I _never could bear it_. The past would be too
strong for me. As to Hope End, it is nothing. I have been happier in my
own home since, than I was there and then. But Torquay has made the
neighbourhood of Hope End impossible to me. I could not eat or sleep in
that air. You will forgive me for the weakness, I am certain. You know a
little, if not entirely, how we loved one another; how I was first with
_him_, and _he_ with me; while God knows that death and separation have
no power over such love.

After all, we shall see you in Paris if not in England. We pass this
winter in Paris, in the hope of my being able to bear the climate, for
indeed Italy is too far. And if the winter does not disagree with me too
much we mean to take a house and settle in Paris, so as to be close to
you all, and that will be a great joy to me. You will pass through Paris
this autumn (won't you?) on your way to Pau, and I shall see you. I do
long to see you and make you know my husband....

So far from regretting my marriage, it has made the happiness and honour