? That room I have often and often fancied I have seen
before me, travelling along for miles by the side of our carriage, when
I have looked out of the carriage-window after dark. We were shut out
that night, and sat at the iron gate, and walked about till morning.
I often look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and
believe that I am in the street again, shut out with Maggy. It is the
same with people that I left in England.

When I go about here in a gondola, I surprise myself looking into other
gondolas as if I hoped to see them. It would overcome me with joy to
see them, but I don't think it would surprise me much, at first. In my
fanciful times, I fancy that they might be anywhere; and I almost expect
to see their dear faces on the bridges or the quays.

Another difficulty that I have will seem very strange to you. It must
seem very strange to any one but me, and does even to me: I often feel
the old sad pity for--I need not write the word--for him. Changed as he
is, and inexpressibly blest and thankful as I always am to know it, the
old sorrowful feeling of compassion comes upon me sometimes with such
strength that I want to put my arms round his neck, tell him how I love
him, and cry a little on his breast. I should be glad after that, and
proud and happy. But I know that I must not do this; that he would not
like it, that Fanny would be angry, that Mrs General would be amazed;
and so I quiet myself. Yet in doing so, I struggle with the feeling that
I have come to be at a distance from him; and that even in the midst of
all the servants and attendants, he is deserted, and in want of me.

Dear Mr Clennam, I have written a great deal about myself, but I must
write a little more still, or what I wanted most of all to say in this
weak letter would be left out of it. In all these foolish thoughts of
mine, which I have been so hardy as to confess to you because I know you
will understand me if anybody can, and will make more allowance for me
than anybody else would if you cannot--in all these thoughts, there is
one thought scarcely ever--never--out of my memory, and that is that
I hope you sometimes, in a quiet moment, have a thought for me. I must
tell you that as to this, I have felt, ever since I have been away, an
anxiety which I am very anxious to relieve. I have been afraid that you
may think of me in a new light, or a new character. Don't do that, I
could not bear that--it would make me more un