It seems as if this were going to be a long, long letter, but I cannot help it. I must wander on in my own way, and I have got more than three hours, all to myself.
What have I been doing since you went away? That is what you are asking yourself? Prepare for wonders. I would give you ten thousand guesses, and you would not come near the truth.
You shall be told without guessing. I found it very dull in the lodging you took for me; the days dragged on so slowly, and I thought the nights would never end.
What did I want? Something to do.
Now, with this in my mind, an inspiration fell upon me one night, and the moment it did so I could not help thinking myself a selfish, idle little woman for not having thought of it before. That sounds rather confused, but you will understand it.
So the very next morning I set about it. How, do you think? And about what?
I went to a poor little shop in a lane in Chelsea, where they sell second-hand clothes, and I bought two common frocks, and some common petticoats, and everything else—boots, cloak, hat—such a hat!—and a bunch of false hair. The clothes were very cheap. I do not know how the woman could have sold them for the money except that the poor creatures who sold them to her must have been so near starvation’s door that they were compelled to part with them at any price.
I took them home to my lodgings, and dressed myself in them, put on my false hair, and smudged my face. I looked exactly like the part I intended to play—a servant-of-all-work, ready to go on the stage.
You are burning to know in what theatre I intended to play the part. I will tell you. Don’t start. Great Porter Square.
Of all places in the world (I hear you say) the one place I should wish my little woman to avoid. Your little woman thought differently—thinks differently.