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LETTERS.
The pilot is hurrying me—God bless you.
In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—"When the mind's free, the body's delicate;"—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Yours most truly
* * * *
LETTER L.
Saturday.
This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart.
How
