I thought I would say this to you.
Certainly I _do know_ that Mr.Chorley highly regards you in every capacity--as writer and as woman--and in the manner in which he named you to me in his last letter there was no chill of sentiment nor recoil of opinion.

So do not admit a doubt of _him_; he is a sure and affectionate friend, and absolutely high-minded and reliable; of an intact and even chivalrous delicacy.

I say it, lest you might have need of him and be scrupulous (from your late feeling) about making him useful.

It is horrible to doubt of one's friends; oh, I know _that_, and would save you from it.
We had a letter from Paris two days ago from one of the noblest and most intellectual men in the country, M.Milsand, a writer in the 'Deux Mondes.' He complains of a stagnation in the imaginative literature, but adds that he is consoled for everything by the 'state of politics.' Your Napoleon is doing you credit, his very enemies must confess.
As for me, I can't write to-day.

Your little precious, melancholy note hangs round the neck of my heart like a stone.