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90 English language, yet, however hard I might try, I could not make this letter a success. It was the first time in my life that I had attempted a letter of the kind. I positively found myself perspiring under the strain of this enormous task, and became terribly confused in the selection of synonyms and floundered about among adjectives and prepositions until I was half mad. I could not count the letters I wrote and destroyed immediately after. If the sentiment was fairly well expressed the language was not to my liking, and vice-versa, when the language was well chosen, the sentiment was not expressed as it should have been. Once or twice it really seemed as if language and sentiment agreed, but then it occurred to me that the thing read something like a novel, and I discarded it again. I became so morbid that a simple "in" or "to" upset me, and soon the poor letter lay again in shreds on the floor. Now could any one under the sun finish a letter at this rate? For the first time in my life I perceived the dignity and beauty of my mother tongue.

I had studied Bengali until my eleventh or twelfth year. Then I went to a girls' school, conducted by Catholic sisters who