The whole visit had been so crowded with work and social engagements as to leave little time for correspondence; and the letters for the period are consequently few and short.
* * * * * _To Mrs.Martin_ 13 Dorset Street, Baker Street: Tuesday, [July-August 1855].
My dearest Mrs.Martin,--I have waited days and days in the answering of your dear, kind, welcoming letter, and yet I have been very very grateful for it.

Thank you.

I need such things in England above other places.
For the rest, we could not go to Herefordshire, even if I were rational, which I am not; I could as soon open a coffin as do it: there's the truth.

The place is nothing to me, of course, only the string round a faggot burnt or scattered.

But if I went there, the thought of _one face_ which never ceases to be present with me (and which I parted from for ever in my poor blind unconsciousness with a pettish word) would rise up, put down all the rest, and prevent my having one moment of ordinary calm intercourse with you, so don't ask me; set it down to mania or obstinacy, but I never _could_ go into that neighbourhood, except to die, which I think sometimes I should like.