He has written the foregoing narrative in a hot fit which,
while it lasted, more than once kept his lamp burning till daybreak;
and although the last chapter was no sooner finished than he flung
the whole away in disgust. I have hopes of him. I may even live to
see a child running about these silent terraces . . . But this, my
dearest wish, outruns all present indications; and if Prosper ever
marries again it will be as his father married, and not for love.[1]
By good fortune I am able to supply the reader with some later news
of two members of the expedition, Mr. Fett and Mr. Badcock. It came
to me, early this summer, in the following letter:--
_To Gervase Arundel, Esq., of Constantine in Cornwall, England_.
"Venice.
Ash Wednesday (4.30 a.m.), 1761.
"Excellent Sir,
"I take up my pen, and lay aside the false nose I have been
wearing night and day for close on a week, to make a
communication which will doubtless interest you as it has
profoundly affected me.
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