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Anne Bronte

I am almost overwhelmed with the desire to obtain more information about this author and her novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I have not been afflicted with such passion for a book in longer than I can remember. I have become a true bookworm again-- glued to this novel, and loathing and scorning every interruption from it. I am over three-fourths done with it, and then finally I will be able to research criticism about this book about which I have never heard. It cuts me more deeply than Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre ever could, though the similarities between all three fascinate me. That these sisters existed on this earth is as overwhelming to me as considering Beethoven existed on this earth.

I have been doing very well with Nathan gone-- even though it's only been five hours or so. I cleaned up the house some and did some shopping-- got some peppermint patties to cheer the night, and if that doesn't work, I will get a mocha valencia. I haven't done anything else today besides read Wildfell, write in my journal and review old entries. I wish I had more time-- I would work on Hugh Worthington in a heartbeat. I am tempted to take it to work, but for one, the book is too fragile to travel, and for another, the keyboards at work are too uncomfortable and send shooting pain to my wrists-- death to anyone wishing she was a writer, as blindness to a painter.

Anyway, my time is drawing near.

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