‘My dear Mr. Rogers,—I was detained on Monday—I mean Wednesday, last—first by business with Bradbury and Evans, and afterwards at the Literary Fund, until I was more than due at the railway. My servant stands charged to bring you “Mary Barton” to-morrow. If I had had a spare moment before I came away, I should have brought it myself.
‘Kate and her sister send you their loves. Brighton is just as you left it. The people, in carriages, on horseback, and afoot, jingling up and down the esplanade under the windows like gay little toys; and the great hoarse ocean roaring unheeded beyond them, and now and then breaking with a deep boom upon the beach, as if it said sullenly, “Won’t anybody listen?” But nobody does; and away they all go, jingling up and down again, until the sun sets, and then go home to dinner.
