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in pencil in top margin Mar 31, 1957

was hinted that I might ask the professor for something to read, so I trudged down to his camp. His professional library didn't contain much that the average reader would get excited about, but he had a four-volume set of the Brontë works.

    "Jane Eyre" I had read, and didn't care to reread.  A frustrated woman never is very interesting.   But she had written "Shirley" and "The Professor'; maybe they were different.  Then came "Agnes Grey", by Anne Brontë.   [[underlined:  I wished it would quit raining.]   The fourth evening, in a "do or die" spirit I intended to start the last tale, "Wuthering Heights."
    Well, bed-time came, and Emily turned in.  There was a lantern on the "little-table" of drift wood between the cots.  I drew up a camp chair, an easy one, gritted my teeth and started in on "Wuthering Heights."
     About 2 A.M. I finished the tale.  I was bodily cramped as I hadn't been out of the chair since opening the book.