Well, so you see I may as well give up fighting against it and die at once.

I am only a burden and anxiety to you--I may as well die at once and go to sleep." "Don't, Jeannie! don't!" said her sister, in a sort of cry; "you are killing me!" Jeannie laid her hot hand upon Augusta's arm, "Try and listen to me, dear," she said, "even if it hurts, because I do so want to say something.

Why should you be so frightened about me?
Can any place that I can go be worse than this place?
Can I suffer more pain anywhere, or be more hurt when I see you crying?
Think how wretched it has all been.
There has only been one beautiful thing in our lives for years and years, and that was your book.

Even when I am feeling worst--when my chest aches, you know--I grow quite happy when I think of what the papers wrote about you: the _Times_ and the _Saturday Review_, and the _Spectator_, and the rest of them.

They said that you had genius--true genius, you remember, and that they expected one day to see you at the head of the literature of the time, or near it.