I have resolved, Monkton, to go to her again! I am sure that it will be
better for both of us to meet once more; perhaps, to unite for ever!
None who have once loved me can easily forget me. I do not say this from
vanity, because I owe it not to my being superior to, but different from,
others. I am sure that the remorse and affliction she feels now are far
greater than she would experience, even were she more guilty, and with
me. Then, at least, she would have some one to soothe and sympathise in
whatever she might endure. To one so pure as Emily, the full crime is
already incurred. It is not the innocent who insist upon that nice line
of morality between the thought and the action: such distinctions require
reflection, experience, deliberation, prudence of head, or coldness of
heart; these are the traits, not of the guileless, but of the worldly.
It is the reflections, not the person, of a virtuous woman, which it is
difficult to obtain: that difficulty is the safeguard to her chastity;
that difficulty I have, in this instance, overcome. I have endeavoured
to live without Emily, but in vain. Every moment of absence only taught
me the impossibility. In twenty-four hours I shall see her again. I
feel my pulse rise into fever at the very thought.

Farewell, Monkton. My next letter, I hope, will record my triumph.