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by every horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced by some awful oath to disclose in court some family disgrace.
Many times I have thought that I must die, and yet I pray God that I may live to see something done.
I shall in all probability be in London in May: shall I see you?
It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help thinking that they will think, when they do, that God hath chosen “the weak things of this world.”
If I live till spring I shall hope to see Shakespeare's grave, and Milton's mulberry-tree, and the good land of my fathers,--old, old England! May that day come!
Yours affectionately, H. B. Stowe.