Ah, commas are the tiny hinge points that let a sentence swing. In 18th‑century letters, a misplaced comma can turn a polite address into a terse command, and that shift drags the whole visual rhythm of the page—think of the line spacing and the way the ink spreads. For an exhibit, I’d map each comma as a separate annotation in the margin, noting its exact position; that way you preserve the original flow and keep any hidden conspiracies that the punctuation might be hinting at (1).

Got it, I’ll choose a light‑weight, narrow serif—just enough to match the period but muted in size, so the 18th‑century script stays front and center; that way the commas do the heavy lifting while the notes stay supportive, not distracting.

Sure thing, I’ll run a quick kerning audit on a handful of pages, noting any tiny gaps that might throw off the balance. A little tweak here, a dash there, and the annotations will glide like whispers, leaving the 18th‑century script as the star of the show.

Sounds like a tidy final touch—just a few more micro‑adjustments and those faint annotations will be the quiet companion of the 18th‑century letters, letting the historic ink still carry the main conversation. Good luck with the exhibit; it’ll feel like a living dialogue across the ages.