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Nothing that “Claude”3 can do for me will give me more
pleasure than your dear letter—few things can give me as much. I woke very early
this morning and watched the dawn come over the sea, feeling so glad and grateful
that my book had gone home to you like that. Long ago, in my lonely struggling years
when I was learning to write and nobody understood what I was trying to do, and I
didn’t understand myself,—I used to think bitterly, (oh so bitterly!) that [illegible] no matter how well I got
on, I could somehow never write the kind of thing that would seem interesting or
true to my own people, and they would never know how much I loved them. I had to
live among writers and musicians to learn my trade, but I do think my heart never
got across the Missouri river. Grand Manan
and Claude And now you do all know,
after all—at least those of you I love best know. Claude4 and his mother are the best compliment I can pay
Nebraska5.
I am sending your letter to Isabelle6 in Paris7, for she will know how much it means to me to have touched my old friend’s heart like that, and she will share in my thankfulness and will send it back to me—to keep in my writing desk forever, along with the one you wrote me after your mother’s8 death. I am so grateful to have been able to get my story and my boy to you so entirely. Things have turned out very well for me at last, you see.
Lovingly always WillaI go back to New York9 next week.