But as to my waist measure, I positively refuse to write that down, even
if I have promised Doctor John a dozen times over to do it, while I only
really left him to _suppose_ I would. It is bad enough to know that
your belt has to be reduced to twenty-three inches without putting down
how much it measures now in figures to insult yourself with. No, I
intend to have this for my happy spring.
Yes, I suppose it would have been lots better for my happiness if I had
kept quiet about it all, but at the time I thought I had to advise with
him over the matter. Now I'm sorry I did. That is one thing about being
a widow, you are accustomed to advising with a man, whether you want to
or not, and you can't get over the habit right away. Poor Mr. Carter
hasn't been dead much over a year and I must be missing him most
awfully, though just lately I can't remember not to forget about him a
great deal of the time. Now if he had been here--_horrors_!
Still, that letter was enough to upset anybody, and no wonder I ran
right across my garden, through Billy's hedge-hole and over into Doctor
John's office to tell him about it; but I ought not to have been
agitated enough to let him take the letter right out of my hand and read
it.
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