they are difficult to people not in the hourly habit of them.
I ought to have written to you some time ago, but as I promised I would, the promise you know was as good as the performance, it showed my excellent intention, ‘the earnestness of my affection—my devotion,’ as Falstaff says, and what more would you have? But the day before yesterday was a grand fête day—ten English letters arrived to my own particular address. Amongst others yours, with the little worked scent-bag in it. The bag is lovely, not a bit tarnished by its long voyage, though if it ever contained anything that was to smell sweet, it must have suffered from sea-sickness, as it is quite empty; but it is a pretty little article, and Wright had just been fitting up a very elaborate basket for my dressing-table, a division whereof your bag exactly fits, and it receives the elegant form of my watch at night, and is then covered over by a counterpane of
