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November 8, 1677

Peace at last.

I should note, despite the title of this post, that I am not a little anxious over the fact that I have not heard hide nor hair of Mr. Gray and my East India stocks since my last entry, but though my business proceedings remain a cause for concern, calm (of an uneasy sort albeit) has returned to my home, and I am verily thankful for it. Patrick, perhaps because he is used to consorting with sorcerers, witch doctors, and Indians in his travels, appears (or at least heroically pretends) to understand the Irishman's utterances, and the pair seem to have formed some sort of a bond. I have not discouraged it, since it keeps them both from plaguing me, on the one hand with incessant chattering about the doings of the preposterous "Royal Society" (a boys club for failed alchemists with too much time on their hands) and, on the other, an incomprehensible Irish brogue, which grows louder the closer we are to lunch – though I have been unable to ascertain much more than that about its purpose or signification.

Nonetheless, they keep each other's company and leave me to my own for the time being, and it is with some relief that I am able to turn to settling matters pertaining to my estate, which I have been at for the better part of today. It is no small relief, I must say, that, with the exception of this pair (and my mother, who will not cease to be at me about my apparent filial and, worse, theological negligence), there is no one in the world who would have occasion to bother me at the moment. It has been nearly a full day since I have heard from either of my houseguests, and the quiet in my home is a gift from Heaven. My God, I'm bored. 

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