“What was the matter yesterday?” (she wrote on another sheet). “I passed by you, and you seemed to me to blush . Perhaps it was only my fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you the revelation of undisguised vice⁠—you should not blush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy⁠—but not for yourself⁠—only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong you . Do you know, I think you ought to love me⁠—for you are the same in my eyes as in his⁠—you are as light. An angel cannot hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself⁠—is it possible to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your fall⁠—you would become comparable at once with such as me.