"We shall return to Bellevue next week," she wrote, "though what
possible benefit can accrue from our returning I cannot pretend to
say. Either home is distasteful to me; so is the rest of the world; so
are the people in it. Enviable condition, is it not? I seem to be
afflicted with a sort of dreadful mental indigestion. Everything I see
and hear and read disagrees with me, so I suppose it is only a natural
consequence that I should be disagreeable. Oh, dear, dear! What is the
good of living, Rose? What is the use or beauty of anything? The Rev.
the Archdeacon of York half-playfully says I need to be regenerated.
Dr. Widmer says my circulation is weak. Poor mamma says nothing; but
she looks a world of reproach. I wish she would take the scriptural
rod to me. That would improve the circulation, I fancy; and if it
didn't produce a state of regeneration it might at least be a
practical step towards it. But I don't know why I should make a jest
of my own misery, when I want nothing on earth except to be a little
child again, so I could creep off into the long grass somewhere, and
cry all my sick heart away.
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