I wonder whether you will be able to read all this trash. I think you will; but unless I tell you more about myself than I should do at home you will know less. Now you see the routine of our life, I can make my next letter much shorter. This wants annotation and affection, as it is only facts, and not feelings; and you must not mind my inconsistency if some Monday morning I write you word I like India. I generally get used to any kind of life, but at present this is most detestable to me. I do assure you it makes me quite ‘sick at my stomach’ sometimes when the morning comes (and I wake very early from those tiresome guns), and I think I have another day to do. The rooms are so dark I cannot draw, and besides it is impossible to sit up on end long together, and then there are a thousand interruptions. We are always dressing, too, and though we thought we brought out so many gowns, I have not half enough.
I find it not at all unwholesome to think of home. I never think of anything else; and as for those little pictures I brought out, I should like to know what I should have been without them. I am having them framed now; but
