“ My Dear Pickwick ⁠— You , my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may.

“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.”