16th January, 1894
Miss Dashwood,
You don’t need my permission to indulge in a ramble – clearly you already have, whether I wanted to receive it or not. I’m not surprised at all. And I assure you I’m not indulging you by answering. Why should I be sorry for you? Do you think you are the only person to lose someone? It was your choice to run away from everything, as if that would help. You could have wallowed in misery just as well here. Did you think of anyone
I suppose you didn’t think of me before you
You only write now that you need me
You call this friends? I don’t want to be your friend, what good does being your friend do me, especially when you’re not here
Who else do you think I hold dear if not
Have you been writing in the rain, or do I have to tell you to stop crying for two minutes? I can barely read your letter.
I would, however, trade one or two of my sisters for you to have yours back. Don’t think I’m being generous or insincere about it. I would do as much for free. (Meta is more trouble than she will ever be worth.)
But you’re in Paris right now, and you call that a punishment. How much longer are you staying?
K.
P. S. In return for what you sent: I have enclosed a bit of pressed mud from London, peeled from my boots, so you can picture just how impressed I am. I am sure you miss my friendship dreadfully.
