day.’ The only amusing thing I have here is their broken English.
God bless you, my very dear sister. I wish I was not so oppressed with the tiresomeness of my own letters. I think I won't write any more, but just drive quietly to East Combe, sit down in the breakfast-room on that low chair, take the ‘Favourite of Nature’ out of that bookcase over the fireplace, open the window wide open for some real fresh air, and have a good gossip while you arrange your flowers. Oh dear, dear but it is no use talking; only I do live in England for hours together, though you don’t perceive me.
We went to see the Alipore Jail, where prisoners, who would be hanged in England, are shut up for life. They are (as I suppose all people are, who have nothing left to hope for) a most desperate set, and about two years ago murdered a Mr. Richardson, the magistrate who had the charge of Alipore Jail. They are all
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