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If so, I despair of your making your meaning intelligible to a poor fellow wallowing, like me, in the Hylic Borboros or whatever else you may choose to call the unfortunate fact of being flesh and blood. . . . Still, write. When Argemone rose in the morning, her first thought was of Lancelot. His face haunted her.
First of all, we couldn't make you one-tenth part as comfortable as you are at home; secondly, there isn't the ghost of an amusement here, and if you came, you'd go back to Saint Winifred's with a fit of blue devils, as I always do; thirdly, the change from Semlyn to Fuzby-le-Mud would be like walking from the Elysian fields and the asphodel meadows, into mere borboros as old Edwards would say.
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