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June 17, 1837
There has been too many letters to copy recently. So now, I think, I will only tell you what they say instead of copying them down, for then I use up all my 10 minutes, when I would prefer to write something else.
I still grieve for Catherine. I cannot believe that those wretched people would have the heart to lie to the school, and take her away to India! I've always wanted to visit India, for I thought it would be fascinating. But now in the knowledge that that is where Catherine is spending her childhood miserably, it does not sound as fascinating at all.
I have small news, exciting for me, but it will not be recognized by anyone else, save perhaps Mr. Godfrey, if he hears of it. My birthday is tomorrow, yes, it is. I am turning twelve, but my birthday hasn't mattered for the years I've spent here all my life, so why would it this year?
It will all be the same: the same. Nothing different will happen then on a regular day, no one will care, and no one will notice.
Last year Catherine knew, and she made me a little card with something nice on it, a letter and note from her (which I still treasure, especially since I may never see her again), and Mrs. Frugular allowed her to buy me a small bottle of perfume, which I haven't used. I'm saving it for when I grow up, if it still smells nice, for what does a little girl care for perfume at twelve?
Oh, I regret it! How could I ever write such a thing about Catherine's present that she got me with her only money? Emma Whitestone, what a little snip you are!
Ah, well, my candle stick I must blow out now. More tomorrow.
Emma Whitestone - Birmingham Girls' Orphanage, England
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