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LETTER LXIX.
November 20.
CHARLOTTE does not know, does not feel, that she is preparing for
me a poison that will destroy us both; and this deadly poison
which he presents to me I swallow in large draughts. What mean
those looks of kindness which she sometimes bestows upon me, that
complacency with which she hears the sentiments that sometimes
escape me, and the tender pity which appears in her countenance?
Yesterday when I took leave of her, she held out her hand to me,
and said, "Adieu, my dear Werter." -- Dear Werter! -- It
was the first time she had ever called me dear; the sound sunk
deep into my heart: I have repeated it a hundred times since; and
when I went to bed, I said, "Good night, my dear Werter."
-- I recollected myself, and laughed.
