February 11th, 1763

This mornings post brought me a letter from my fiancé, formally asking me to accept his hand. My mother, present at the table and endlessly inquiring from whom this letter is, that makes me turning pale as marble, finally snatched it from my hand, reading it to my brother and Mrs. P. At length they discussed the handwriting, each reading the note again and again, praising the style (which style?) and so on. When my father entered mother showed it to him, he only nodding his approval. She made me go up to my room to write a reply.
And there I sit now, writing this instead, trying to get a clear head and to find words suitable of an assent to send someone I know not, met only once before and whose brother I loathed.