[Boston—Wednesday, 5 February 1868]
Feb 5. I opened this hoping to write but fell to dreaming over those last words & my memories of Mrs Stowe.
We have had such a funny paper from Dickens today that it can only describe itself. Articles drawn up arranging for a walk & dinner upon his return here, as if it were some fierce legal document.
The weather has been cold but fine—parties rampant, life as busy as possible—about nothings—yet I suppose, well done, these make the one grand something we call a year of life.
