I had then, as you remember, returned to London. I went along Fleet Street. And the river was there. Black shapes crouched between the trees, in abandonment and despair. I saw vague forms of men running, from the depths of the woods. Carried off by foxes. I arrived at a place from which, on clear days, you could see a chain of mountains. Snow on the upland meadows. At the confluence of two rivers, there was a market fair with slaves. Suitable to objects of mourning. I wanted to see the warm countries; in the summer I worked in the fields. I came across a fortified city, on the country’s western border. Because it is better to live—because the rock is full of deception—we left in April.