November.--. . . . How delightfully long the evenings are now! I do not
get intolerably tired any longer; and my thoughts sometimes wander back
to literature, and I have momentary impulses to write stories. But this
will not be at present. The utmost that I can hope to do will be to
portray some of the characteristics of the life which I am now living,
and of the people with whom I am brought into contact, for future
use. . . . . The days are cold now, the air eager and nipping, yet it
suits my health amazingly. I feel as if I could run a hundred miles
at a stretch, and jump over all the houses that happen to be in my
way. . . . .
I have never had the good luck to profit much, or indeed any, by
attending lectures, so that I think the ticket had better be bestowed on
somebody who can listen to Mr. ------ more worthily. My evenings are
very precious to me, and some of them are unavoidably thrown away in
paying or receiving visits, or in writing letters of business, and
therefore I prize the rest as if the sands of the hour-glass were gold or
diamond dust.
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