The consequence is I feel my light put out! -- not hid under a bushel, but absolutely quenched in its proper existence.

I felt so when I began to write this letter; but by dint of looking steadily for so long a time towards you, I perceive a reflection of light and warmth coming back upon me and beginning to take effect upon my own tinder, whereby I gather that it is capable of being ignited again.

Seriously, Winthrop, I am sick of this.

_This_ was not what we left home for.

I suppose in time, and with business enough, one might make money in this way, but money is not our object in life.
It cannot satisfy me, and I trust not you.