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Kensington July 9th 1844.
My dear Percy/
Do suppose for a moment that we are miserable to what you have done for us, or Should not be ever thankful for it. It is the morsel of our existence. But so perverse is fate sometimes, that our good fortune has exasperated our creditors.
I feel sure that you will acquit me of writing this letter with any willingness; and I trust also, that you give me credit for being fully sensible of the delicacy of my positions with regard to my kind friends at Putney, especially after what they are already doing for me; but terrible pressure forces me to speak, and I now speak to yourself rather /that/ than to your mother, partly because you are the person who would at my rate have to be spoken to at last, and partly that the responsibility of troubling you may be upon myself rather than her. I have great sighs in setting out on this task; and you must forgive it for the real pangs they contain, and for my dislike of causing a moment's shadow /---/ of discomfort to either of you. Imagine that it is not myself, or my Shabbiness
[continued from page 4]
with an advance from a bookseller last Saturday, but was disappointed.
Ever my dear Percy, your obliged and faithful friend,
Leigh Hunt
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