The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. I’m so glad you’re not angry. They would arrive sometime in June. ‘In this case, I will not kill him at all, even that he should have remained to wait for my letter. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. We were alike.
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