I am afraid I have no clue what it is you are going on about, Mr. Trumbull. The Congo, Marlow, Kurtz? I hear this man — I suppose it is this Marlow character you mentioned — going on about rivets, fog, and heads on sticks, but I do not understand a word of it, and I suspect he does not understand a word of it either. I do hope to depart from this wretched boat and head back to Middlemarch soon, though. This Marlow’s story, while incoherent, certainly makes me feel . . . uncomfortable, I suppose, but that is not sufficient enough to describe this feeling. It is as though I am being made to think of things I would rather not think about, things that I cannot possibly understand, and any attempt to understand them would drive me just as mad as Mr. Marlow seems to be, but I cannot stop thinking about them. I believe, if he were to stop talking, I could get my mind to focus on what matters most to me: Mary. I wish I had her by my side, although I would rather keep her from hearing Mr. Marlow’s nonsense. It would not do any good for both of us to be incapacitated by these ramblings. I suppose all I can do is hope this story is short and that I can find a way to get off his boat and back home.

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