4th March 1832

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To my eldest and dearest sister,

I have been in New Zealand for over a year, and in that time over one hundred whales have died at my hands. I want to believe that I have grown numb to this reality, but in truth I still hear their songs of anguish in my dreams, and still weep for repentance in the mermaid's arms.

Since Christmas, the reverend and his daughter have continued to visit the whaling station regularly, converting the Māori to Christianity, while every day I feel further and further away from God. Willa tries valiantly to pry apart the shell that I have hidden myself within, and I feel I might break under her pressure. Uncle Cyrus says I should be lucky to have the lass fawning over me as she does. The other whalers, rough and horrible as they are, speak crudely of her when she is not around and even when she is. Man is cruel, love crueller.

As always,

D—

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