A letter?
It was a blow; a blow from her he loved, and she hated him! His long-suffering love gave way at last.

What folly and cruelty combined! He could no longer make allowances for the spite of a woman whose lover had been traduced.

Rage and despair seized him; he bit his nails and tore his hair with fury, and prayed Heaven to help him hate her as she deserved, "the blind, insolent idiot!" Yes, these bitter words actually came out of his mouth, in a torrent of injury.
But to note down all he said in his rage would be useless; and might mislead, for this was a gust of fury; and, while it lasted, the long-suffering man was no longer himself.
As a proof how little this state of mind was natural to him, it stirred up all the bile in his body, and brought on a severe attack of yellow jaundice, accompanied by the settled dejection that marks that disorder.
Meantime the _Proserpine_ glided on, with a fair wind, and a contented crew.

She was well found in stores, and they were served out ungrudgingly.
Every face on board beamed with jollity, except poor Hazel's.

He crept about, yellow as a guinea; a very scarecrow.
The surgeon, a humane man, urged him to drink sherry, and take strong exercise.
But persons afflicted with that distressing malady are obstinately set against those things which tend to cure it; this is a feature of the disease.