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And now my written story ends. I look back, once more—for the last time—before I close these leaves. I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our
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And now my written story ends. I look back, once more—for the last time—before I close these leaves. I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I see our children and our
What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory, on which it o…
The year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been at home above two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However lo…
For a time—at all events until my book should be completed, which would be the work of several months—I took up my abod…
My aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night. How the emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than c…
I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and raining, and I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I h…
It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, man…
One thing more, I had to do, before yielding myself to the shock of these emotions. It was, to conceal what had occurre…
No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parti…
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