24 June 1845. Browning, Robert to Browning, Elizabeth Barrett.

London

Tuesday Morning

(So my friend did not (in the spirit) see me write that first letter, on Friday, which was too good & true to send & met, five minutes after, its natural fate accordingly: then on Saturday I thought to take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the morning— about Town too: last post-hour from this Thulé of a suburb,—4 p.m. on Saturdays; next expedition of letters, 8, a.m., on Mondays;—and then my real letter set out with the others—and, it should seem, set at rest a “wonder whether thy friend’s questions de-served answer-ing”—deserved-answer-ing—!)

Parenthetically so much—I want most, though, to tell you—(leaving out any slightest attempt at thanking you) that I am much better, quite well to day—that my Doctor has piloted me safely thro’ two or three illnesses, and knows all about me, I do think—and that he talks confidently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of—and has made a good beginning if I may judge by to-day: as for going abroad, that is just the thing I most want to avoid, (for a reason not so hard to guess, perhaps, as why my letter was slow in arriving).

So, till to-morrow,—my light thro’ the dark week.

God ever bless you, dear friend!

RB.