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e mistaken for that of a proper young lady, but this new coloration, this ghastly,<br />
sweaty film that even now is spreading itself thickly over my face and hands, stops<br />
my breath when I glance in the mirror. My hair, previously a tousled mass, has<br />
become a limp creature, spreading lethargic shadows like an infection each time it<br />
swipes its curled, yellow fingers across my skin. I have grown tired and hideous by<br />
degrees, and still I have no hope of recovery, although my new resolve does give me<br />
relief. I ask for just a few pages more to explain myself.<br />
Never in my life have I desired solitude, but as my appearance now<br />
repulses even myself, I have begun to seek out silent rooms in which to sit undisturbed<br />
for hours. I do not mean to say that thoughtful contemplation was a practice<br />
altogether unfamiliar to me, but outside my thoughts are usually filled with<br />
the movements of life and the millions of colors that make it up. Sitting beneath a<br />
tree, I forget to think about troubles and instead let the rushing wind between the<br />
branches fill up my ears until I am mindful of nothing else. In the house’s drafty<br />
rooms, though, my past swirls down on me in chilly blasts, and my future slams in<br />
front of my face repeatedly, like the heavy library doors at the end of the hallway.<br />
You might assume that these unpleasant thoughts would put me in a melancholy<br />
state, but they have strangely led to an inexplicable joy.<br />
This joy stems from nothing other than spending a considerable<br />
amount of time thinking about you, dear Cousin. You might believe that only our<br />
uncle supervises you, swinging open the library door long enough to reassure himself<br />
that you are still alive and then letting the heavy wood slam loudly shut. However,<br />
you can have confidence that even when I cannot walk down the hallway to see<br />
you, I listen carefully for your footsteps. As I sit with my senses<br />
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