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I am to get up to-day, and I feel there is going to be a letter from you. (How dangerous these glad feelings are!)

I am incredibly better really, for all this complete rest and food and sleep. I must have slept more than I've been awake by a long chalk. To-morrow, the little young larned gentleman, as the old 'un calls the doctor, says I may go for a drive with A. and see all the butterflies and the hedges. Oh, she brings me bright bouquets that take the breath! We must have our Heron soon. You have no idea of all the treasure that still lies in England's bosom….

Queer—I can't write letters any more. No, I can't. I have written too many, you know. I think it is infernal that we should be apart. But we must not be together. What an impasse! Sometimes I am so bewildered, utterly bewildered, as though I were caught in a cloud of rushing birds.

But I understand Wordsworth, and his sister and Coleridge. They're fixed, they're true, they're calm.

And there you live, wearing yourself out in that bloody office, wearing yourself out in your rooms. No, it's unbearable.