The shooting season is over; all our guests have left the castle; we are as dull as ditch water, and I at length have time to write to you, dear Nesti. Poor Fred, too, has gone. He was awfully kind and amusing, but woefully unhappy. I am truly sorry for him, poor fellow, but I cannot help it. His estate up in the mountains brings in next to nothing; and we could not live upon air, first-rate as it seems to be up there.…
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