distraction.
It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap, I guess.
I don t know why I should write this.
I don t want to.
I don t feel able.
And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and
think in some way it is such a relief!
But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.
Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.
John says I mustn t lose my strength, and has me take cod-liver oil and
lots of tonics and things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare
meat.
Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried
to have a real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell
him how I wish he would let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and
Julia.
But he said I wasn t able to go, nor able to stand it after I got
there; and I did not make out a very good case for myself, for I was
crying before I had finished.
It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this
nervous weakness, I suppose.
And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs
and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my
head.
He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I
must take care of myself for his sake, and keep well.
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