Sunday. August 7th.

Bro gave me a note from Eliza Cliffe, to say .. nothing! She feels very warmly & kindly: but she does not write well. Better than vicê versâ. As it is, there is certainly no vice in the case.

Went to Church with Bummy & Arabel; not with Henrietta—because a carriage that holds only three, wont hold four—which is remarkable. When we returned, Henrietta wanted to know if there was any news— None in Mr. Dean’s sermon certainly! The rain spared us a re-infliction of Mr. Davis, at the gate.[1]

Maddox came from Ledbury this morning; & she has been talking to me in my room for the last two hours. I love her for the sake of past & present. She is a dear feeling creature!—& that, I always thought & felt!— But now I must occupy a little more time more profitably, than even in talking with her—or writing here.

Mr. Boyd said yesterday that from the four words “Good morning Mr. Boyd”, which he once heard Henrietta say, he thinks her voice agreable & clear & distinct. “The best voice of the three”—alluding to Arabel’s & mine!

My voice pleased him once. Well!—there is no use in thinking of it any more!—

Maddox is going in our carriage to Malvern tomorrow. Shall I go with her? If I had not gone yesterday, I would: & if Henrietta had not opposed it (very gently tho’) I wd.: & if were not unknowing on one subject, I would. But as it is, I think—no! I will not do so.

1. The preacher of the previous Sunday, substituting for Mr. Curzon.


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