My father’s new wife gave me this journal the day she married him, exactly one year ago. Before then, she was only my aunt Priscilla, a Boston old maid schoolmistress, no less. She is so very prim and proper that I call her “Prissy,” but inside my head—not to her face. That would just be courting trouble!
Prissy married Father a scant, sorrowful week after Mother died. I must confess—but only to these pages—I often do and say things I know will irritate her. Not an admirable thing to do, but I do it anyhow.
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