You have helped me to see that dear friend of ours, as without you I could not have seen her, in those last affecting days of illness, by the window not only of the house in Berkshire, but of the house of the body and of the material world--an open window through which the light shone, thank God.

It would be a comfort to me now if I had had the privilege of giving her a very very little of the great pleasure you certainly gave her (for I know how she enjoyed your visit--she wrote and told me), but I must be satisfied with the thought left to me, that now _she_ regrets nothing, not even great pleasures.
I agree with you in much if not in everything you have written of her.
It was a great, warm, outflowing heart, and the head was worthy of the heart.

People have observed that she resembled Coleridge in her granite forehead--something, too, in the lower part of the face--however unlike Coleridge in mental characteristics, in his tendency to abstract speculation, or indeed his ideality.

There might have been, as you suggest, a somewhat different development elsewhere than in Berkshire--not very different, though--souls don't grow out of the ground.
I agree quite with you that she was stronger and wider in her conversation and letters than in her books.

Oh, I have said so a hundred times.