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to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all about me, I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved. I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains, that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it, if I could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs. Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us. When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way—though I could have done that sooner, if he would have believed me—I resumed my work, and my chair beside his. He had appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

“Dame Trot,” said he, receiving me with a kiss, “welcome to the Growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develope, little woman. I purpose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time—as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short.”

“And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?” said I.

“Aye, my dear! Bleak House,” he returned, “must learn to take care of itself.”

I thought his tone sounded sorrowful; but, looking at him, I saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

“Bleak House,” he repeated; and his tone did not sound sorrowful, I found, “must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada, my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you.”

“It is like you, guardian,” said I, “to have been taking that into consideration, for a happy surprise to both of us.”

“Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for that virtue; since, if you were generally on the road, you could be seldom with me. And besides; I wish to hear as much and as often of Ada as I can, in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow.”

“Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?”

“I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden.”

“Does he still say the same of Richard?”

“Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about him; who can be?”

My dear girl had been to see us lately, every day: sometimes twice in a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as it had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions upon her to stay