A queer word that last, but I use it
because the aspect of Lewes's face almost moves me to tears, it is so
wonderfully like Emily--her eyes, her features, the very nose, the
somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead--even, at moments, the
expression. Whatever Lewes does or says, I believe I cannot hate
him. Another likeness I have seen, too, that touched me sorrowfully.
You remember my speaking of a Miss Kavanagh, a young authoress, who
supported her mother by her writings. Hearing from Mr. Williams that
she had a longing to see me, I called on her yesterday. I found a
little, almost dwarfish figure, to which even I had to look down; not
deformed--that is, not hunch-backed, but long-armed and with a large
head, and (at first sight) a strange face. She met me half-frankly,
half-tremblingly; we sat down together, and when I had talked with
her five minutes, her face was no longer strange, but mournfully
familiar--it was Martha Taylor on every lineament. I shall try to
find a moment to see her again. She lives in a poor but clean and
neat little lodging. Her mother seems a somewhat weak-minded woman,
who can be no companion to her. Her father has quite deserted his
wife and child, and this poor little, feeble, intelligent, cordial
thing wastes her brains to gain a living.
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