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John Glidden, I am real mad at you, would bite you if I could see
you, firstly, because you don't let me hear from you, secondly, because
you send me none of the all-powerful "root."* Just fancy, for a moment,
your sister far away from all the friends of her youth, forsaken and penniless, obliged to borrow even a stamp to send a letter to her forgetful,
recreant, brother, to jog his memory, and refresh his mind on the subject
of his absent sister's wants. Picture this to your-self, and now it is proved
that "truth is stranger than fiction". Now if there was only a little more
romance connected with it, it would be quite fine, but there is most too
much
*[of all evil?]
Respectfully,
[A.M.Q.?]
[Her?] Amanuensis.