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145 Dartmouth Street Boston Mass. Dear Joe. This school opened yesterday and I have been busy enough trying to squelch and [[strikethrough]] outalk [[/strikethrough]] out-talk some dozen or sixteen old maids and the usual complement of raw boys. In my moments of leisure I shove things around my studio and write maudlin letters to such of my friends who are good enough to make allowances for my feeble brain. I seem to be in rather a peculiar passive condition and somehow seem to be doing things in a sort of Lady Macbeth, sleep-walking fashion. Occasionally however the dreadful drawings about me give me a realizing sense of my position, and then I feel like flying the place. "Budge, says the fiend" "Budge not says conscience" and so I give up my [[?loins]] and go