A dark rainy day & a dark room in this gloomily be-shaded house are rather poor auspices with which to commence a letter with the least hope of making a brilliant epistle. Were such my object I certainly should postpone writing until another ray of sunlight should give me an opportunity imbibe some "bright inspiration," as Miss Edith May has it. But my dear cousin at present I dont anticipate being bright, perhaps thee would call me dull, the truth is I feel rather melancholy, very much in accordance with the day. I have been all the morning down at the factory deep in the mysteries of shawl borders (& which by the way I have scarcely got out of my head now, so if thee should suddenly find, Scarlet & Grey crossed with Blue & Green & double & twisted mixed, -- dont be at all surprised but set it down as merely ornamental border or fringe to the idea immediately preceding) & now as I set down to collect my thoughts, I listen to the wind sighing mournfully among the trees & I see the rain drizzling slowly, noiselessly down, & I take a sort of delight in seeing how exceedingly dull & dreary it seems. And then I think of the pleasant days we spent at your house & it seems more dismal here by contrast. And yet Clemmie though I enjoyed those days very much, those walks on the Piazza, those evenings on the sofa, there was some thing which I half suspected at the time, but which I now fully believe, a something which in some degree interfered with the freedom
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