whim.
I m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid
paper.
Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deep-shaded
arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.
Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private
wharf belonging to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that
runs down there from the house. I always fancy I see people walking in
these numerous paths and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give
way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power and
habit of story-making a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to
all manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good
sense to check the tendency. So I try.
I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it
would relieve the press of ideas and rest me.
But I find I get pretty tired when I try.
It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my
work. When I get really well John says we will ask Cousin Henry and
Julia down for a long visit; but he says he would as soon put
fire-works in my pillow-case as to let me have those stimulating people
about now.
I wish I could get well faster.
But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew
what a vicious influence it had!
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck
and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down.
I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the
everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd,
unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths
didn t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little
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