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hers！
But what I particularly want you to know； and why I have resolved
to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little
unfortable without occasion； is this。 She is so true and so devoted；
and knows so pletely that all her love and duty are his for ever；
that you may be certain she will love him； admire him； praise him； and
conceal all his faults； until she dies。 I believe she conceals them； and
always will conceal them； even from herself。
She has given him a heart that can never be taken back； and however much
he may try it； he will never wear out its affection。 You know the truth
of this； as you know everything； far far better than I； but I cannot
help telling you what a nature she shows； and that you can never think
too well of her。
I have not yet called her by her name in this letter； but we are such
friends now that I do so when we are quietly together； and she speaks to
me by my name……I mean； not my Christian name； but the name you gave me。
When she began to call me Amy； I told her my short story； and that you
had always called me Little Dorrit。 I told her that the name was much
dearer to me than any other； and so she calls me Little Dorrit too。
Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet； and may not
know that she has a baby son。 He was born only two days ago； and just a
week after they came。 It has made them very happy。 However； I must tell
you； as I am to tell you all； that I fancy they are under a constraint
with Mr Gowan； and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was
sometimes a slight given to their love for her。 It was but yesterday；
when I was there； that I saw Mr Meagles change colour； and get up and
go out； as if he was afraid that he might say so； unless he prevented
himself by that means。 Yet I am sure they are both so considerate；
good…humoured； and reasonable； that he might spare them。 It is hard in
him not to think of them a little more。
I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over。 It looked at
first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much；
that I was half inclined not to send it。 But when I thought it over a
little； I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only
been watchful for you； and had only noticed what I think I have noticed；
because I was quickened by your interest in it。 Indeed； you may be sure
that is the truth。
And now I have done with the subject in the present letter； and have
little left to say。
We are all quite well； and Fanny improves every day。 You can hardly
think how kind she is to me； and what pains she takes with me。 She has
a lover； who has followed her； first all the way from Switzerland； and
then all the way from Venice； and who has just confided to me that he
means to follow her everywhere。 I was much confused by his speaking to
me about it； but he would。 I did not know what to say； but at last I
told him that I thought he had better not。 For Fanny （but I did not tell
him this） is much too spirited and clever to suit him。 Still； he said he
would； all the same。 I have no lover； of course。
If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter； you will
perhaps say； Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me
something about her travels； and surely it is time she did。 I think it
is indeed； but I don't know what to tell you。 Since we left Venice we
have been in a great many wonderful places； Genoa and Florence among
them； and have seen so many wonderful sights； that I am almost giddy
when I think what a crowd they make。
But you can tell me so much more about them than I can tell you； that
why should I tire you with my accounts and descriptions？
Dear Mr Clennam； as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar
difficulties in my travelling mind were before； I will not be a coward
now。 One of my frequent thoughts is this：……Old as these cities are；
their age itself is hardly so curious； to my reflections； as that they
should have been in their places all through those days when I did not
even know of the existence of more than two or three of them； and when
I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls。 There is something
melancholy in it； and I don't know why。 When we went to see the famous
leaning tower at Pisa； it was a bright sunny day； and it and the
buildings near it looked so old； and the earth and the sky looked so
young； and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired！ I could not
at first think how beautiful it was； or how curious； but I thought； 'O
how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room； and
when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard……O how many
times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to…day！' It quite
overpowered me。 My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes；
though I did what I could to restrain them。 And I have the same feeling
often……often。
Do you know that since the change in our fortunes； though I appear to
myself to have dreamed more than before； I have always dreamed of myself
as very young indeed！ I am not very old； you may say。 No； but that is
not what I mean。 I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning
to do needlework。 I have often dreamed of myself as back there； seeing
faces in the yard little known； and which I should have thought I had
quite forgotten； but； as often as not； I have been abroad here……in
Switzerland； or France； or Italy……somewhere where we have been……yet
always as that little child。 I have dreamed of going down to Mrs
General； with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember
myself。 I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner
at Venice when we have had a large pany； in the mourning for my poor
mother which I wore when I was eight years old； and wore long after it
was threadbare and would mend no more。 It has been a great distress to
me to think how irreconcilable the pany would consider it with my
father's wealth； and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny
and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret。 But
I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it； and at the
sel