Yes, I hate soldiers. I can't help writing it-it relieves my mind. All morning have we been driving about that horrid region into which our beautiful, desolate moor has been transmogrified; round and round, up and down, in at the south camp and out at the north camp; directed hither and thither by muddle-headed privates; stared at by puppyish young officers; choked with chimney-smoke; jolted over roads laid with ashes-or no roads at all-and pestered everywhere with the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups, -that color is ...
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Yes, I hate soldiers. I can't help writing it-it relieves my mind. All morning have we been driving about that horrid region into which our beautiful, desolate moor has been transmogrified; round and round, up and down, in at the south camp and out at the north camp; directed hither and thither by muddle-headed privates; stared at by puppyish young officers; choked with chimney-smoke; jolted over roads laid with ashes-or no roads at all-and pestered everywhere with the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups, -that color is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore! What a treat it is to get home and lock myself-in my own room-the tiniest and safest nook in all Rockmount-and spurt out my wrath in the blackest of ink with the boldest of pens. Bless you! (query, who can I be blessing, for nobody will ever read this), what does it matter? And after all, I repeat, it relieves my mind.
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