And what, I would ask, is the world?
'Tis nought but a mob of unthinking humanity." Thereafter, incidentally remarking that she had just dropped a tear to the memory of her dear mother, who had departed this life twenty-five years ago, the (presumably) lady writer invited Chichikov to come forth into the wilds, and to leave for ever the city where, penned in noisome haunts, folk could not even draw their breath.

In conclusion, the writer gave way to unconcealed despair, and wound up with the following verses: "Two turtle doves to thee, one day, My dust will show, congealed in death; And, cooing wearily, they'll say: 'In grief and loneliness she drew her closing breath.'" True, the last line did not scan, but that was a trifle, since the quatrain at least conformed to the mode then prevalent.

Neither signature nor date were appended to the document, but only a postscript expressing a conjecture that Chichikov's own heart would tell him who the writer was, and stating, in addition, that the said writer would be present at the Governor's ball on the following night.
This greatly interested Chichikov.

Indeed, there was so much that was alluring and provocative of curiosity in the anonymous missive that he read it through a second time, and then a third, and finally said to himself: "I SHOULD like to know who sent it!" In short, he took the thing seriously, and spent over an hour in considering the same.

At length, muttering a comment upon the epistle's efflorescent style, he refolded the document, and committed it to his dispatch-box in company with a play-bill and an invitation to a wedding--the latter of which had for the last seven years reposed in the self-same receptacle and in the self-same position.