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October 27, 1677

Excuses, Excuses

On top of my convalescence from the braining by Jack's lintel stone, the effort required to scour this accursed city, in the (by definition) vain hope of finding worthy substitutes for the largely irreplaceable specimens from my formerly envied collection of world-wide flora and fauna, which collection Jack and Sean committed to the eternal grave in a foolish, if touching, effigy of me, has kept me both very busy and rather too irascible to post on yet another day's failures.

Further, while I was confined to my bed, Sean and Jack took the well-intentioned liberty of inventing and then delivering to my esteemed colleagues at the Society preliminary and completely fraudulent descriptions of my findings from my time in the Orient. The Society now await eagerly tractati on, among other ludicrous topics, the customs of a fictitious tribe that only walk on their hands, the "werefish," and the vegetable lamb of Tartary. Between drafting more truthful versions of these and the constant flow of quacks who, at Sean's behest, "treat" me for melancholy (from which no one has ever died anyway), I have had little time and still less energy to post.

But true to his word, this evening Jack set the dogs on Sean's latest fool before the poor man had even crossed the threshold, and the sight raised my spirits considerably.


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