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I was never destined
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to become a great doctor as you are.
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Apologies again for not writing sooner,
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but I trust this letter finds you well and in good spirits,
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and I hope that some of this unseasonably warm Petrograd weather
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makes it to your neck of the woods.
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Happy birthday, Zhurov.
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It was my birthday three weeks ago,
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and it was wretched.
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Right, he sent it four weeks ago, but
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you know what the post is like.
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Even letters don't want to be sent here.