. But sometimes Euphemia gets hold of some still untorn, and says in her dictatorial way that they have to be answered--insists--says I must. Yet she knows that nothing fills me with a livelier horror than having to answer letters. It paralyses me. I waste whole days sometimes mourning over the time that I shall have to throw away presently, answering some needless impertinence--requests for me to return books lent to me; reminders from the London Library that my subscription is overdue; proposals for me to renew my ticket at the stores--Euphemia's business really; invitations for me to go and be abashed before impertinent distinguished people: all kinds of bothering things.
And speaking of letters and invitations brings me round to friends. I dislike most people; in London they get in one's way in the street and fill up railway carriages, and in the country they stare at you--but I hate my friends. Yet Euphemia says I must "keep up" my friends. They would be all very we
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