Dearest Imogen,
You have no idea how much I envy you these days. I think of you in your mountain retreat as we swelter in the Cincinnati heat and humidity, and how I sigh for your ability to get away from all this. All this, currently, includes the following: Aunt Lena, overcome by the heat, secluding herself in her room bathing her brow with lavender water; father worried and preoccupied about the socialist agitators that are rumored to be arriving in droves this Fall, Kathryn pining artistically about the house since John Post has gone to the mountains with his family, and the boys in a constant state of uproar about the wins of our Cincinnati Red Stockings, and the great exploits of men with names like Bid McPhee, Hick Carpenter, and Pop Snyder. I myself would give almost anything for two moments together of peace and quiet. Even this note I write in haste, knowing that Cook will be coming in soon with the initial plans for Kathryn’s debut. Still, any letter is better than no letter at all. I send this off in haste – it has been quite a while since I received anything from you. I hope you are well?
Sincerely, Elizabeth
