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My dear Eliza

The morning has slipt so oddly thro my Fingers that my Courier is waiting for our Letters & not a Line written to you –

it is true I have not much to say yet I did not mean to be reduced to say the little I had in such vile & half illegible Haste —

I must sigh over yr Account of poor Arnoldos [sic] affliction

To lose a lovely little Girl I conceive to be one of the most