I do believe I have the vapors! It is a stifling heat and I feel not myself. It is as if a foreign being has invaded and I do not know of what I am anymore. These petticoats are oppressive and they chafe me in this sweltering weather. From my picture window I can see Alphonso, the Latin gardner, at his toil. He works with a brute force that frightens yet excites me. Dear, dear Egbert is so effete. His uncalloused hands have never known a day's work from the sweat of his brow. Can I woman truly desire such a milquetoast? I love him, but there is a q***r yearning for something which consumes, burns...What to do, dear readers?
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