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I’m home again, came yesterday, and am perfectly happy. I can’t understand now how
I
ever felt as I did at the hospital5. But
really, it was an ugly and agonizing business6. Somehow, when you have blood-poisoning, you feel so unclean.
You pulled me out of a bad situation in Boston7 two years ago and brought me to New York2 on your back. (I seem to be a mollusck mollusk when I’m ill.) This time Fremstad8 pulled me out. Singing only three times last week,—once in
Brooklyn—she came down to the hospital unannounced and unheralded, with a motor-load
of every kind of spring flower, pulled me out of the mud-shallows and got me into
current again. She showed me how to do my hair in two braids abov above my forehead, German fashion, and to make a
chiffon thing over the bandage like Elizabeth wears in the last
act9. She showed so much interest an in
and so little horror of my ugly head, that I lost my own horror of it. It had taken
a sharp turn for the better the night before she came, and now it’s going ahead by
leaps and bounds. The moment the destruction of tissue stopped, which was not until
Wednesday night, the world turned a different color, and I was sorry I’d sent you
such a disgusting letter10. But while one
is making poison, there’s a cloud of madness over one’s brain. I never put in any
three weeks like those before. A high temperature, and consistently unrelenting pain
in such an inconvenient place—well, they make a mollusk of one, that all. But now—oh everything’s so jolly. Forget the invertebrate,
please, and consider me draped in chiffon, like Louise
of Prussia11!