My unknown correspondent plied me a third time.
I pasted the scrap in my neglected book of notes and reflections, where it had ample space and about equal lucidity.

It drew me to the book, nearly driving me desperate; I was now credulous of anything, except that the princess cared for help from me.

I resolved to go home; I had no longer any zeal for study.

The desolation of the picture of England in my mind grew congenial.

It became imperative that I should go somewhere, for news arrived of my father's approach with a French company of actors, and deafening entertainments were at hand.