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Charlotte and I were fortunate that one of her doctor friends had to back out of his reservation for the old mansion and we were able to slip in for the summer by pretending to be his family.

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say, maybe a classic haunted house, to reach the height of romanticized imagination as I tend to do. But as much as it might satisfy such an atmosphere, in truth it was just an old house that had once been a proud home, but now had fallen to hard times.

While I, even as a young boy, enjoyed the intangible, my wife, Charlotte, is practical in the extreme. She has no patience with religion and intensely ridicules superstition of any nature.

Charlotte is a physician, and perhaps, ironically, that is one reason I do not get over my depression. She believes I am a hypochondriac.

And what can I say? When a physician of high standing, and one's own wife, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with me but a temporary nervous depression, maybe a slight hysterical tendency, what am I supposed to say without sounding hysterical?

So I take pills, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again.

Personally, I disagree with those ideas. Personally, I believe that having something to focus on and be excited about would do me good. But Charlotte always knows best. She is a doctor.

Charlotte says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and I confess my internet research always makes me feel worse.

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