Morning at the Office. Weather cold and chilly. Reading Blackstone, in the Court of Common Pleas and engaged in making a Writ. My professional business continues still. Conversation with George who goes positively tomorrow. I rode to Quincy after dinner in a sharp piercing East Wind. Gave some directions about the Garden and went up to see my Uncle. The family are very comfortably and prettily settled in their new residence and on the whole I think it more comfortable than the old one.1 Much conversation but there is something sticking at bottom which made them dull, which I could not at all understand. How great a similarity all sense of wrong creates in conduct in all men. George and my Uncle are both quivering under the fear of the merited reproaches which my father can though he will not give them. Returned rather later than I had expected so that it was nine o’clock when I reached my Office. Read the Spectator until ten.
TBA and his family had moved to “the old Ruggles farm and house,” which still stands though greatly altered at Elm and South streets in Quincy and which was occupied by TBA’s two unmarried children until the present century (HA2’s Notes in Adams Papers Editorial Files).