Disaffection stalks around us.
you may imagine me the very shadow of my husband.
I would rather fight with my hands than my tongue.
When I shall again write to you, or where I shall be tomorrow, I cannot tell.
Two messengers covered with dust come to bid me fly, but I wait for him.
And now, dear sister, I must leave this house or the retreating army will make me a prisoner in it by filling up the road I am directed to take.