are doing the same.
I was pleased to hear that your father is doing well and that he is enjoying his retirement. I also greatly appreciate his offer of his medical books and instruments, and would be honored to accept them as mine own. If you do not mind sending them to me, at the Air Station address, then all postage costs will be assumed by my account. Please thank him for me, and assure him that I shall endeavor to use them with the same care he always exhibited.
Your concern over my wellbeing was immensely pleasing, but I do not wish for you to be worried for me. Please be aware that I am managing quite well, and have acclimated myself a little better to Auld Toon. I still become lost on occasion, through the narrow, winding catacombs of the closes, but if I keep to my outlined paths to the Operating Theatre and such, then I succeed reasonably well. There is method to the madness of the closes, and I have developed quite the mental map.
You asked for more details about my subterranean abode. There is really very little to describe. A very small room, with scarcely enough space for the little bits of furniture contained within. There is a narrow iron-framed bed and then a small vanity topped with a mirror. A stout, short cupboard, but due to the lack of available space I keep most of my belongings in trunks. There is a desk and chair. The floor is stone, and can be cold to the touch.
There is no fireplace. No windows, of course, due to the below-the-streets locale.
I do not wish for you to be concerned with the cramped living or think that it is in some way unsafe. There is a good sturdy lock upon the door, and the Mitchells do not seem particularly interested in rifling through my belongings. This room, this snug, is ideal for me, considering I spend very little time within the boarding house at all. I rest there. The remaining hours are spent either at the Operating Theatre or exploring what is proving to be a vastly interesting city.
I have ventured out again tonight, and am currently sitting at Hayâs Bookshop, located just beyond my boarding house. This place is a wonderful respite after the long day working, and is a necessary break from the confines of my snug. I had a very robust dinner of soup and cold cuts at a coffeehouse close by, and have finally settled myself here, to both reread your letter and to write one in response.
Hayâs Bookshop has become one of my favorite haunts. I find myself lost amid the various stacks and shelves. Such an offering! There are desks available in the far corner, with nice gas lamps and comfortable chairs. And most important, a fireplace!
So tonight, I have packed parchment, quill, and ink into my carpetbag. There is no one disturbing me as I write you. I have selected a desk close to the fire and can feel its warmth. The proprietor does not mind that I have brought in coffee, and it is working wonders on the deep chill that I fear has permanently settled into my bones.
I would be delighted to procure any novels you might desire. Yesterday, I purchased a copy of
The Last of the Mohicans
by Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. It is supposed to be an exciting accounting of America and the New World, and I can envision many nights spent lost amid its pages. America fascinates me, and it is my supreme wish to one day visit its shores. For now, Cooperâs novel will have to suffice, and I hope it does not disappoint. There is nothing I like less than a novel that disintegrates in both plot and structure. A flip through the pages assures me that this is not the case with Cooper, but I will not know until I truly invest.
If you would, please, send me authors and titles that interest you. I will procure and send them promptly. I know that Inverness is in sore need of such a shop, and am unwilling for you to suffer from a lack of literature when I have resources so readily at my fingertips.
There is a constant rain that falls upon this coal-streaked city, but it is providing a
I was pleased to hear that your father is doing well and that he is enjoying his retirement. I also greatly appreciate his offer of his medical books and instruments, and would be honored to accept them as mine own. If you do not mind sending them to me, at the Air Station address, then all postage costs will be assumed by my account. Please thank him for me, and assure him that I shall endeavor to use them with the same care he always exhibited.
Your concern over my wellbeing was immensely pleasing, but I do not wish for you to be worried for me. Please be aware that I am managing quite well, and have acclimated myself a little better to Auld Toon. I still become lost on occasion, through the narrow, winding catacombs of the closes, but if I keep to my outlined paths to the Operating Theatre and such, then I succeed reasonably well. There is method to the madness of the closes, and I have developed quite the mental map.
You asked for more details about my subterranean abode. There is really very little to describe. A very small room, with scarcely enough space for the little bits of furniture contained within. There is a narrow iron-framed bed and then a small vanity topped with a mirror. A stout, short cupboard, but due to the lack of available space I keep most of my belongings in trunks. There is a desk and chair. The floor is stone, and can be cold to the touch.
There is no fireplace. No windows, of course, due to the below-the-streets locale.
I do not wish for you to be concerned with the cramped living or think that it is in some way unsafe. There is a good sturdy lock upon the door, and the Mitchells do not seem particularly interested in rifling through my belongings. This room, this snug, is ideal for me, considering I spend very little time within the boarding house at all. I rest there. The remaining hours are spent either at the Operating Theatre or exploring what is proving to be a vastly interesting city.
I have ventured out again tonight, and am currently sitting at Hayâs Bookshop, located just beyond my boarding house. This place is a wonderful respite after the long day working, and is a necessary break from the confines of my snug. I had a very robust dinner of soup and cold cuts at a coffeehouse close by, and have finally settled myself here, to both reread your letter and to write one in response.
Hayâs Bookshop has become one of my favorite haunts. I find myself lost amid the various stacks and shelves. Such an offering! There are desks available in the far corner, with nice gas lamps and comfortable chairs. And most important, a fireplace!
So tonight, I have packed parchment, quill, and ink into my carpetbag. There is no one disturbing me as I write you. I have selected a desk close to the fire and can feel its warmth. The proprietor does not mind that I have brought in coffee, and it is working wonders on the deep chill that I fear has permanently settled into my bones.
I would be delighted to procure any novels you might desire. Yesterday, I purchased a copy of
The Last of the Mohicans
by Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. It is supposed to be an exciting accounting of America and the New World, and I can envision many nights spent lost amid its pages. America fascinates me, and it is my supreme wish to one day visit its shores. For now, Cooperâs novel will have to suffice, and I hope it does not disappoint. There is nothing I like less than a novel that disintegrates in both plot and structure. A flip through the pages assures me that this is not the case with Cooper, but I will not know until I truly invest.
If you would, please, send me authors and titles that interest you. I will procure and send them promptly. I know that Inverness is in sore need of such a shop, and am unwilling for you to suffer from a lack of literature when I have resources so readily at my fingertips.
There is a constant rain that falls upon this coal-streaked city, but it is providing a
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