care of the former, in pity to the latter, which I applaud, and
shall second with all, my might."

But she does not say whether the young wife, a stranger and lonely
yonder, wants another woman and her daughter Cornelia to be lavishing so
much inflamed interest on her husband or not. That young wife is always
silent--we are never allowed to hear from her. She must have opinions
about such things, she cannot be indifferent, she must be approving or
disapproving, surely she would speak if she were allowed--even to-day and
from her grave she would, if she could, I think--but we get only the
other side, they keep her silent always.

"He has deeply interested us. In the course of your intimacy
he must have made you feel what we now feel for him. He is
seeking a house close to us--"

Ah! he is not close enough yet, it seems--

"and if he succeeds we shall have an additional motive to
induce you to come among us in the summer."

The reader would puzzle a long time and not guess the biographer's
comment upon the above letter. It is this:

"These sound like words of s considerate and judicious friend."

That is what he thinks. That is, it is what he thinks he thinks. No,
that is not quite it: it is what he thinks he can stupefy a particularly
and unspeakably dull reader into thinking it is what he thinks. He makes
that comment with the knowledge that Shelley is in love with this woman's