You have
become a woman, and the mistress of a house. Still I cannot think of
you otherwise than as my younger sister. I have brought you up to
womanhood, I taught you your letters; but now when I see your writing
I am ashamed to send this scrawl. But of what use to be ashamed? My
day is over; were it not so how should I be in this condition? What
condition?--it is a thing I cannot speak of to any one; should I do
so there will be sorrow and shame; yet if I do not tell some one of my
heart's trouble I cannot endure it. To whom can I speak? You are my
beloved sister; except you no one loves me. Also it concerns your
brother. I can speak of it to no one but you.
"I have prepared my own funeral pyre. If I had not cared for Kunda
Nandini, and she had died, would that have been any loss to me? God
cares for so many others--would He not have cared for her? Why did I
bring her home to my own destruction! When you saw that unfortunate
being she was a child, now she is seventeen or eighteen. I admit she
is beautiful; her beauty is fatal to me. If I have any happiness on
earth it is in my husband; if I care about anything in this world it
is for my husband; if there is any wealth belonging to me it is my
husband: this husband Kunda Nandini is snatching from me.
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