Now, will you believe how we have wished and longed to see you beyond these strait tantalising limits ?--how you look to us at this moment like the phantasm of a thing dear and desired, just seen and vanishing?
What! are you to be ranked among my spiritualities after all?
Forgive me that wrong.
Then you had things to say to me, I know, which in your consideration, and through my cowardice, you did not say, but yet will! Will you write to me, dear Mr.Ruskin, sometimes, or have I disgusted you so wholly that you won't or can't?
Once, I know, somewhat because of shyness and somewhat because of intense apprehension--somewhat, too, through characteristic stupidity (no contradiction this!)--I said I was grateful to you when you had just bade me not.

Well, I really couldn't help it.

That's all I can say now.
Even if your appreciation were perfectly deserved at all points, why, appreciation means sympathy, and sympathy being the best gift nearly which one human creature can give another, I don't understand (I never could) why it does not deserve thanks.

I am stupid perhaps, but for my life I never could help being grateful to the people who loved me, even if they happened to say, 'I can't help it! not I!' As for Mr.Ruskin, he sees often in his own light.

That's what I see and feel.
Will you write to me sometimes?
I come back to it.