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Chapter 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit

           Ihaveoftendreamedofmyselfasbackthere,seeingfacesintheyardlittleknown,andwhichIshouldhavethoughtIhadquiteforgotten;but,asoftenasnot,Ihavebeenabroadhere—inSwitzerland,orFrance,orItaly—somewherewherewehavebeen—yetalwaysasthatlittlechild.IhavedreamedofgoingdowntoMrsGeneral,withthepatchesonmyclothesinwhichIcanfirstremembermyself.IhaveoverandoveragaindreamedoftakingmyplaceatdinneratVenicewhenwehavehadalargecompany,inthemourningformypoormotherwhichIworewhenIwaseightyearsold,andworelongafteritwasthreadbareandwouldmendnomore.Ithasbeenagreatdistresstometothinkhowirreconcilablethecompanywouldconsideritwithmyfather’swealth,andhowIshoulddispleaseanddisgracehimandFannyandEdwardbysoplainlydisclosingwhattheywishedtokeepsecret.ButIhavenotgrownoutofthelittlechildinthinkingofit;andattheself-samemomentIhavedreamedthatIhavesatwiththeheart-acheattable,calculatingtheexpensesofthedinner,andquitedistractingmyselfwiththinkinghowtheywereevertobemadegood.Ihaveneverdreamedofthechangeinourfortunesitself;Ihaveneverdreamedofyourcomingbackwithmethatmemorablemorningtobreakit;Ihaveneverevendreamedofyou.

           DearMrClennam,itispossiblethatIhavethoughtofyou—andothers—somuchbyday,thatIhavenothoughtslefttowanderroundyoubynight

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