Rode into Boston. The day was lovely and my spirits were calm and quiet. Occupied in writing to my Mother1 and in reading. But the three last days have been very much wasted. In the evening I sent for Richardson to pass the evening with me. Our conversation was a painful one. It turned first upon some slight he thought he had received from me which I was obliged to explain without effectually removing his suspicions. It then fell upon other subjects of a nature deeply affecting to me and calculated to act violently upon me. As such, I was in very low spirits when I went to bed.