Chapter: Dear Mr Clennam,

     I write to you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to
     hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am
     to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed
     to see it, and you miss nothing--unless it should be me, which can only
     be for a very little while together and very seldom--while everything in
     my life is so strange, and I miss so much.

     When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago,
     though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain
     excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy.
     She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and
     would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her
     almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that;
     who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not
     wonder at any one loving her. No indeed.

     It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan's account, I hope--for I
     remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her--if
     I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to
     her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him,
     but I thought he was not earnest enough--I don't mean in that respect--I
     mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs
     Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like
             her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of
     some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt
     this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made
     uneasy by this, for she was 'very well and very happy.' And she looked
     most beautiful.

     I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting
     for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to
     her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little
     of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any
             other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and
     I never can forget it.

     I wish I knew--but it is best for no one to write to me--how Mr and Mrs
     Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them,
     and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren,
     and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back
     the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy, and of the blank
     she must have felt at first, however kind they all are to her, without
     her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a strict secret, with my
     love, that she never can have regretted our separation more than I have
     regretted it? And will you tell them all that I have thought of them
     every day, and that my heart is faithful to them everywhere? O, if you
     could know how faithful, you would almost pity me for being so far away
     and being so grand!

     You will be glad, I am sure, to know that my dear father is very well
     in health, and that all these changes are highly beneficial to him, and
     that he is very different indeed from what he used to be when you used
     to see him. There is an improvement in my uncle too, I think, though he
     never complained of old, and never exults now. Fanny is very graceful,
     quick, and clever. It is natural to her to be a lady; she has adapted
     herself to our new fortunes with wonderful ease.

     This reminds me that I have not been able to do so, and that I sometimes
     almost despair of ever being able to do so. I find that I cannot learn.
     Mrs General is always with us, and we speak French and speak Italian,
     and she takes pains to form us in many ways. When I say we speak French
     and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I am so slow that I scarcely
     get on at all. As soon as I begin to plan, and think, and try, all my
     planning, thinking, and trying go in old directions, and I begin to feel
     careful again about the expenses of the day, and about my dear father,
     and about my work, and then I remember with a start that there are no
     such cares left, and that in itself is so new and improbable that it
     sets me wandering again. I should not have the courage to mention this
     to any one but you.

     It is the same with all these new countries and wonderful sights.
     They are very beautiful, and they astonish me, but I am not collected
     enough--not familiar enough with myself, if you can quite understand
     what I mean--to have all the pleasure in them that I might have. What
     I knew before them, blends with them, too, so curiously. For instance,
     when we were among the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to tell such
             an idle thing, dear Mr Clennam, even to you) as if the Marshalsea must
     be behind that great rock; or as if Mrs Clennam's room where I have
     worked so many days, and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that
     snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your lodging
     in Covent Garden? 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 unhappy than you can suppose.
     It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way
     that would make me stranger to you than I was when you were so good to
     me. What I have to pray and entreat of you is, that you will never think
     of me as the daughter of a rich person; that you will never think of me
     as dressing any better, or living any better, than when you first
     knew me. That you will remember me only as the little shabby girl you
     protected with so much tenderness, from whose threadbare dress you have
     kept away the rain, and whose wet feet you have dried at your fire.
     That you will think of me (when you think of me at all), and of my true
     affection and devoted gratitude, always without change, as of


     Your poor child,

     LITTLE DORRIT.


     P.S.--Particularly remember that you are not to be uneasy about Mrs
     Gowan. Her words were, 'Very well and very happy.' And she looked most
     beautiful.

 This chapter is just a short letter from Amy to Arthur. Amy is all mopey and homesick and a little passive aggressive in the letter - much like in real life. She writes about meeting Mrs. Gowan and goes on and on how super-beautiful Pet is, and how much Amy is not nearly as beautiful, and how she totally could never measure up to the awesomeness that is Pet. She adds that Gowan kind of sucks, and that Pet seems kind of unhappy, and that they are not that well matched as a couple. But still, Pet? Really very pretty. Yikes, Amy, put down the whip. We're thinking that horse is already dead. In other news, Amy can't adjust to their new life and misses everyone from home. She wonders about the Plornishes, and how they are doing now that Dorrit bought them a business and they are able to have Old Nandy come live with them again. She also keeps expecting to find the prison around every corner and Mrs. Clennam's house on the next block. On top of that, she's super-sad that she isn't at Dorrit's beck and call anymore. Finally she hopes Arthur thinks about her sometimes, and that he'll keep remembering her as the poor, raggedy girl he met, not the daughter of some rich obnoxious dude.

