But now—­here all the jesting goes.  You tell me what was observed in the ‘moment’s’ visit; by you, and (after, I suppose) by your sisters.  First, I will always see with your eyes there—­next, what I see I will never speak, if it pain you; but just this much truth I ought to say, I think.  I always give myself to you for the worst I am,—­full of faults as you will find, if you have not found them.  But I will not affect to be so bad, so wicked, as I count wickedness, as to call that conduct other than intolerable—­there, in my conviction of that, is your real ‘security’ and mine for the future as the present.  That a father choosing to give out of his whole day some five minutes to a daughter, supposed to be prevented from participating in what he, probably, in common with the whole world of sensible men, as distinguished from poets and dreamers, consider every pleasure of life, by a complete foregoing of society—­that he, after the Pisa business and the enforced continuance, and as he must believe, permanence of this state in which any other human being would go mad—­I do dare say, for the justification of God, who gave the mind to be used in this world,—­where it saves us, we are taught, or destroys us,—­and not to be sunk quietly, overlooked, and forgotten; that, under these circumstances, finding ... what, you say, unless he thinks he does find, he would close the door of his house instantly; a mere sympathizing man, of the same literary tastes, who comes good-naturedly, on a proper and unexceptionable introduction, to chat with and amuse a little that invalid daughter, once a month, so far as is known, for an hour perhaps,—­that such a father should show himself ‘not pleased plainly,’ at such a circumstance ... my Ba, it is SHOCKING!  See, I go wholly on the supposition that the real relation is not imagined to exist between us.  I so completely could understand a repugnance to trust you to me were the truth known, that, I will confess, I have several times been afraid the very reverse of this occurrence would befall; that your father would have at some time or other thought himself obliged, by the usual feeling of people in such cases, to see me for a few minutes and express some commonplace thanks after the customary mode (just as Capt.  Domett sent a heap of unnecessary thanks to me not long ago for sending now a letter now a book to his son in New Zealand—­keeping up the spirits of poor dear Alfred now he is cut off from the world at large)—­and if this had been done, I shall not deny that my heart would have accused me—­unreasonably I know but still, suppression, and reserve, and apprehension—­the whole of that is horrible always!  But this way of looking on the endeavour of anybody, however humble, to just preserve your life, remedy in some degree the first, if it was the first, unjustifiable measure,—­this being ’displeased’—­is exactly what I did not calculate upon.  Observe, that in this only instance I am able to do as I shall be done by; to take up the arms furnished by the world, the usages of society—­this is monstrous on the world’s showing!  I say this now that I may never need recur to it—­that you may understand why I keep such entire silence henceforth.