What is all this correspondence, between you and brother
John, about, coz? It looks very suspicious, let me
tell you, when such an au—aug—august,—yes, that's the
word—when such an “august creature” as you are,
is found interchanging whole quires of paper, with such
a madman as brother John. The world will talk, Sally;
and I warn you in season—: so good bye—. Now
dont tell me again, that I never wrote a long letter in
my life. It is true,—this is the first, and probably the
last; for, really I'd rather talk myself into a consumption,

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as John has already, than scribble myself cold, as I have
now, to one that will curl her hair with the tenderest
things that I can say, and so—. No—I can't eke
out another line. It must go, as it is;—but, if you ever
reply, pray be good enough to say, how the devil you
manage to write so many pages, when it worries me into
a fever, to write a few sentences.

Adios,