ecome of poor Ann? For her I have reserved my
concluding words. According to our agreement, I sought her daily, and
waited for her every night, so long as I stayed in London, at the corner
of Titchfield Street. I inquired for her of every one who was likely to
know her, and during the last hours of my stay in London I put into
activity every means of tracing her that my knowledge of London suggested
and the limited extent of my power made possible. The street where she
had lodged I knew, but not the house; and I remembered at last some
account which she had given me of ill-treatment from her landlord, which
made it probable that she had quitted those lodgings before we parted.
She had few acquaintances; most people, besides, thought that the
earnestness of my inquiries arose from motives which moved their laughter
or their slight regard; and others, thinking I was in chase of a girl who
had robbed me of some trifles, were naturally and excusably indisposed to
give me any clue to her, if indeed they had any to give. Finally as my
despairing resource, on the day I left London I put into the hands of the
only person who (I was sure) must know Ann by sight, from having been in
company with us once or twice, an address to ---, in ---shire, at that
time the residence of my family. But to this hour I have never heard a
syllable about her. This, amongst such troubles as most men meet with in
this life, has been my heaviest affliction. If she lived, doubtless we
must have been some time in search of each other, at the very same
moment, through the mighty labyrinths of London; perhaps even within a
few feet of each other--a barrier no wider than a London street often
amounting in the end to a separation for eternity! During some years I
hoped that she _did_ live; and I suppose that, in the literal and
unrhetorical use of the word _myriad_, I may say that on my different
visits to London I have looked into many, many myriads of female faces,
in the hope of meeting her. I should know her again amongst a thousand,
if I saw her for a moment; for though not handsome, she had a sweet
expression of countenance and a peculiar and graceful carriage of the
head. I sought her, I have said, in hope. So it was for years; but now
I should fear to see her; and her cough, which grieved me when I parted
with her, is now my consolation. I now wish to see her no longer; but
think of her, more gladly, as one long since laid in the grave--i