“Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be forwarded⁠—supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity⁠—forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachael⁠—Ah, that name!⁠—

“Tracy Tupman.”