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LETTERS.
spect to the memory of a man—who, spite of his faults, I have an affection for—I say have, for I believe he is somewhere—where my soul has been gadding perhaps;—but you do not live on conjectures.
LETTER XV.
My dear sir, I send you a chapter which I am pleased with, now I see it in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope you will not have often to say—what does this mean?
You forgot you were to make out
my
