My dear husband did it simply to fill
our purse again. The people who were angry were the people who loathe
good, and seek for nothing but that class of literature. My husband
had no vicious motive in writing it; he dissected these things as a
doctor would a body. I was calculating what effect it would have on
the mass of uneducated people who _might_ read it. I did receive many
beautiful letters on the subject, and the papers have more or less never
let me drop, but often much blame. I was so astonished to find myself
either praised or blamed; it seemed to me the natural thing for a woman
to do; but I see now how mistaken I was to have confessed it, and to
imagine it was my duty to confess, which I certainly did. I know that
he, being dead, would not have wished it published; if so, why did he
leave it to me? . . . You are quite right; it has pleased me more
than I can say that you should approve and confirm my ideas, and I am
so thankful that the Life has succeeded. I got my best reward in a
review which said that 'Richard Burton's widow might comfort herself,
as England now knew the man inside and out, that she had lifted every
cloud from his memory, and his fame would shine as a beacon in all
future ages.' I remember so well the party at Lady Margaret Beaumont's.
I can shut my eyes and see the whole dinner-table; we were twenty-five
in party. And I remember well also the party at Bulstrode.
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