[Boston—Tuesday, 18 February 1868]

Feby 18th We are anticipating and doorkeeping for the arrival of our friend. Whatever unpleasant is said of Charles Dickens I take almost as if said against myself. It is so hard to help this when you love a friend.

The snow and cold still endure but the skies are bright and the airs healthy.

I am eager, eager to do something—a dangerous eagerness which analysed may only show ambition in covert form. I can live the poem I would write—let me do it then and thank God!

Nothing more from Mary Dodge! This silence on our part will induce anger I fear on hers—yet if we should speak—imperfectly understanding the ground of her dissatisfaction, we might make a bad matter worse.

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