Arthur Dixon letters

Yet am I grateful, – & not coldly so. – I believe I must charge it all on some kind & unexpected expressions warmly coined at your hearts core that I trouble you with all this ebullition of feeling, hardly & with severity of sufferance borne down & kept under, our old intimacy may & I hope it will excuse one more day – tho’ I thought a severe proscription of duty would have preserved my consistency. – I should not even here have [have – crossed out] excited your fresh vexation but for a circumstance, a whim, a freak, to which it is only necessary to put the name of Arthur Dixon & it may pass. I had taken the pen to do so, paper lay before me. – I had written, “Dear Edmund –” (who is a good fellow, kind to your old friend & appretiated [sic] “dear” as his amiability most surprisingly unconsciously impels one to –) when Alfred with eyes red with weeping over Ovid who is generally by the bye very amusing, came to have me assist him in the translation, by appointment, at two on Sunday afternoon. - He brought me your letter. What would have followed you have almost licensed me to write, or you have made it impossible now while I read yours to address to you through another at this moment, placed as I am in that which is so intensely so exquisitely pleasurable to me a term however short of converse with you my very dear John. – Carlo, whom I have borrowed begged for the day & who is to be with me untill nine at night when I have promised to deliver him safe at St. Martins, lies at my feet. He looks in my face with that melancholy phiz of his, & seems to say, we are left together. – It is just past three