If a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, I should not mind a bit. but if a friend of mine had a sorrow and refused to allow me to share it, I should feel it most bitterly. If he shut the doors of the house of mourning against me, I would move back again and again and beg to be admitted so that I might share in what I was entitled to share. If he thought me unworthy, unfit to weep with him, I should feel it as the most poignant humiliation.
Life cheats us with shadows. We ask it for pleasure. It gives it to us with bitterness and disappointment in its train.
I don’t write this letter to put bitterness into your heart, but to pluck it out of mine. For my own sake I must forgive you.
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