Now shall you see what you shall see—­here shall be ’sound speech not to be reproved,’—­for this morning you are to know that the soul of me has it all her own way, dear Miss Barrett, this green cool nine-in-the-morning time for my chestnut tree over there, and for me who only coaxed my good-natured—­(really)—­body up, after its three-hours’ night-rest on condition it should lounge, or creep about, incognito and without consequences—­and so it shall, all but my right-hand which is half-spirit and ‘cuts’ its poor relation, and passes itself off for somebody (that is, some soul) and is doubly active and ready on such occasions—­Now I shall tell you all about it, first what last letter meant, and then more.  You are to know, then that for some reason, that looked like an instinct, I thought I ought not to send shaft on shaft, letter-plague on letter, with such an uninterrupted clanging ... that I ought to wait, say a week at least having killed all your mules for you, before I shot down your dogs—­but not being exactly Phoibos Apollon, you are to know further that when I did think I might go modestly on, ... [Greek:  omoi], let me get out of this slough of a simile, never mind with what dislocation of ancles!  Plainly, from waiting and turning my eyes away (not from you, but from you in your special capacity of being written-to, not spoken-to) when I turned again you had grown formidable somehow—­though that’s not the word,—­nor are you the person, either,—­it was my fortune, my privilege of being your friend this one way, that it seemed a shame for me to make no better use of than taking it up with talk about books and I don’t know what.  Write what I will, you would read for once, I think—­well, then,—­what I shall write shall be—­something on this book, and the other book, and my own books, and Mary Hewitt’s books, and at the end of it—­good bye, and I hope here is a quarter of an hour rationally spent.  So the thought of what I should find in my heart to say, and the contrast with what I suppose I ought to say ... all these things are against me.  But this is very foolish, all the same, I need not be told—­and is part and parcel of an older—­indeed primitive body of mine, which I shall never wholly get rid of, of desiring to do nothing when I cannot do all; seeing nothing, getting, enjoying nothing, where there is no seeing and getting and enjoying wholly—­and in this case, moreover, you are you, and know something about me, if not much, and have read Bos on the art of supplying Ellipses, and (after, particularly, I have confessed all this, why and how it has been) you will subaudire when I pull out my Mediaeval-Gothic-Architectural-Manuscript (so it was, I remember now,) and instruct you about corbeils and ogives ... though, after all, it was none of Vivian’s doing, that,—­all the uncle kind or man’s, which I never professed to be.  Now you see how I came to say some nonsense (I very vaguely think what) about Dante—­some