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 this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one Master Jervie caught when he was a little boy.

I called him "Master Jervie" to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. Julia says that she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. But Julia hasn't a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal. They purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (That isn't a very elegant metaphor. I mean it figuratively.)

We're reading Marie Bashkirtseff's journal. Isn't it amazing? Listen to this: "Last night I was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea."

It makes me almost hope I'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about—and awfully destructive to the furniture.