Arose this morning with a headache and numb feeling in my shoulder which gradually disappeared in the course of the day. I passed a large part of the morning with my Mother, who did not appear so well today. She talked a great deal with me upon indifferent subjects. I then took a walk and stopped at Johnson Hellen’s Office,1
found him alone, and talked a great deal with him upon the only subject in which he appears to feel any decided interest, the election. I talked with him, though my interest rises in that sickly kind of way which precedes immediate loathing. In the afternoon, I sat down and wrote to Abby, a long letter giving an account of every thing of interest which I could find, all of which did not amount to much, for a less interesting journey, it seems to me that I never took in my whole life.2
Our way of life here is one of luxury and strongly contrasts with mine in Boston. But I feel little or no attachment to it now, and am surprised at my own indifference. Evening with my Mother.