Letter 82 - May 23rd, 1842
Mine own Dove,
As of writing this, I admit to having read your letter many times. And now, while I pen my reply near the hearth, I struggle to wipe the tears welling up in my eyes. Never have I felt worthy of fancying myself an ‘artist.’ Notwithstanding my doubt, your words enwrapped my heart. You must know, too, that as a child, I seldom received encouragement from my foster parents. They frequently belittled the drawings I enthusiastically brought to them. In time, my spirit grew weary and despondent—and I saw, within my illustrations, every degree of imperfection. However, your words, William, rekindled a fire I believed died long ago in my soul.
Love, your friend whose sleeves are now damp,
Abagail
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