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Sunday, December 29, 1889

     9.45 A. M. W. in his room—had just finished breakfast—reading The Press. I took him down the new issue of Current Literature, which last night he said he would like to read. "I shall get feasts of feasts out of it," he said, "it is an organ of and for many tastes." He had "woke well"—and "eaten a hearty breakfast," and now was "comfortable and serene, as you see."

     Referring to the Illustrated London News picture, which lay on the table before him: "It is not worth talking about: it departs so from all that is true and fine, I have no patience with it."

     His "Christmas Greeting" not yet published. Did not know if he would feel moved the next few days to "address the year 1890" or not. "I had better not, I guess, if there is to be any such result as last year's"—referring to the surprise and sensitiveness of some of his friends. Curious about the weather, but as Warren is still sick, "I hardly expect to get out today."


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