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imagine how hard it is for me to bring myself indoors to write. The work & the air (every draught of which seems like a distinct, conscious pleasure) make me feel like singing, and when I go to the city, which is seldom, the American crouds [[crowds]] make me feel as if I were some body again, and I square my shoulders unconsciously. But letter writing quickly knocks me out so you will forgive me if I don't keep up with you. I never keep track of the time exactly, but