I think I am decent, better certainly than I was two
months ago, but people don't compliment me as they do Arthur--excuse
the name, it has grown natural to use it now. I trust, dear Nell,
that you are all well at Brookroyd, and that your visiting stirs are
pretty nearly over. I compassionate you from my heart for all the
trouble to which you must be put, and I am rather ashamed of people
coming sponging in that fashion one after another; get away from them
and come here.--Yours faithfully,
'C. B. NICHOLLS.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _November_ 7_th_, 1854.
'DEAR ELLEN,--Arthur wishes you would burn my letters. He was out
when I commenced this letter, but he has just come in. It is not
"old friends" he mistrusts, he says, but the chances of war--the
accidental passing of letters into hands and under eyes for which
they were never written.
'All this seems mighty amusing to me; it is a man's mode of viewing
correspondence. Men's letters are proverbially uninteresting and
uncommunicative. I never quite knew before why they made them so.
They may be right in a sense: strange chances do fall out certainly.
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