Of Typhoid this afternoon which was the end of it. For who can write with an arm that aches abominally & a head that feels as if Rachmaninoff were playing his 'Prelude' inside it? We lead a very quiet & peaceful life here. The only incidents being more or less domestic so to speak.
Par example this morning a youth who evidently aspires to the stripes of the Farrier Corporal & is now diligently