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  Dear Mr. Tennyson,

It is a long time since my last to you. I have however mailed you once or twice pieces of mine in print which I suppose you rec'd. Jan. '73 I was taken down with illness—some three months, afterward was recovering at Washington, when called here by the death of my mother—& from that time becoming worse, I have given up work & remained here since.

I had paralysis from cerebral anemia.

I rec'd your last letter, & the good, good photograph—which I have looked at many times, & sometimes almost fancied it you in person silently sitting nigh. To-day, a cloudy & drizzly Sunday, I have taken it in my head, sitting here alone & write—follow the inner mood—(a tinge of Quaker blood & breed in me)—though really without any thing to say, only just to write to you.

It is pleasant here, right on the banks of the noble Delaware, opposite Philadelphia. The doctors say I shall yet come round, & I think so too. I do not fail in flesh, color, spirits—appetite & sleep pretty good—am up & dressed every day, & go out a little—but very lame yet.

Truly your friend— WW   To Tennyson,  
 May 24 '74.