Well you see dear, what with the summer coming and all, many of us are frightfully busy. You'd think that being dead would be easy, but it's really quite a lot of work. Why, I can name several of my old friends and colleagues who are booked up haunting mansions all summer, and I wouldn't be surprised if several founding fathers didn't have an appointment to spin in their graves this evening.
My secretary is too busy being, well, a secretary. There were certain benefits to her unemployment, but on the whole I suppose it is better that she has money. She is finally getting back into art, but her version is to read Eric Hebborn's biography and squeal over how "adorable" Graham and Edgar were. You can tell where her taste runs. I'm not sure she even really cares about Eric.
I miss the boy - he would be an entertaining addition here. Quite naughty of him to keep going with the drawings after Colnaghi's caught it, but that was Eric. He was very kind to me in his book, I must admit, but he seems to have had a bit of a laugh over that 'Poussin'. He looks at different things, and he ought to know that. And he was rather unkind to John, but perhaps John was rather unkind to him in those business dealings. It was not my affair. I do treasure the thought of that night in bed, however.
There were certain benefits to her unemployment, but on the whole I suppose it is better that she has money.
My typist is sitting here nodding ruefully. She just finished a Kelly Girl gig (she's looking at me funny, now - apparently there are a whole lot more "temporary agencies" than Kelly, but hey - it's what I know, ya dig?) and is spending a lot of time sitting around on this computer, which is why you're likely to see more of me soon.
We are locked up in the heads of our rather silly typists. At least I am. And I want *out*. If I were locked up with/by some interesting company that would be passable, but this is horrendously boring.
It is rather. And her life is rather boring. If she could meet a dashing mathematician, or at least indulge in some gambling, I wouldn't be going out of my mind. But NOOO... she has to be dully married, and more boring than watching someone program a difference engine dry opium poppy seeds write poetry sleep.
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I must be doing something wrong. All I have on my plate are a huge pile of translations of the account of my trial.
Haunting sounds so much more interesting.
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I miss the boy - he would be an entertaining addition here. Quite naughty of him to keep going with the drawings after Colnaghi's caught it, but that was Eric. He was very kind to me in his book, I must admit, but he seems to have had a bit of a laugh over that 'Poussin'. He looks at different things, and he ought to know that. And he was rather unkind to John, but perhaps John was rather unkind to him in those business dealings. It was not my affair. I do treasure the thought of that night in bed, however.
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At least she is interested in things that may interest you.
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My typist is sitting here nodding ruefully. She just finished a Kelly Girl gig (she's looking at me funny, now - apparently there are a whole lot more "temporary agencies" than Kelly, but hey - it's what I know, ya dig?) and is spending a lot of time sitting around on this computer, which is why you're likely to see more of me soon.
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Though mostly she pays too much attention to the fictional Frenchman.
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However, they came home the other day with some rather interesting fabric. It seems as if it were covered in teapots....
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