That was life. The flu attacked my reproductive organs and caused me to expel my 194 female parts. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. Divers plans and figures were chalked upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be "The History of Chaste Susannah;" an old print of the Seven Golden Candlesticks; an abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against drinking, swearing, and all manner of profaneness; and a view of the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend gentleman and the principal members of his flock. I was grounded for the last two weeks. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. .
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