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Your note was forwarded to me in the
country3 where I have been staying with friends. I came into
town2 this morning to attend to
some business and with the pleasant hope of seeing you, dear Lady, if you
are still in town. But the heat has been too much for me! I have retired to
my apartment4 to go to bed
until tomorrow, when I fear I must flee the
city again. It has been a great loss to me not to have seen you at all this
winter, and to have had only a glimpse of Mrs.
Boas5. But I’ve been more
more or less ill ever since
Christmas. For several weeks I hovered on the edge of a mastoid process.
Then, because half a dozen doctors thought my tonsils might be the source of
infection, I went into a hospital and had them taken out. I lost a great
deal of blood and the operation went hard with me. As soon as I was out of
the hospital I went to the sanitarium at
Wernersville, Pa6. for a time, and
had a very pleasant spring outing there. As soon as I got back to New York,
however, I felt much less well, and I was in great anxiety about my
mother7 who was very ill. All this
while I was reading the proofs of my novel8
which will be out early in September, and doctors and publishers9 have been my sole
companions. This is the history of my winter, and in I relate these woes woes only to let you know why my friends
have seen little of me, and why you, a very dear
friend, have not seen me at all. Like most strong people, I am very much
ashamed of having been ill, but those seasons of good-for-nothingness come
to all of us, and I think they are more desolating to strong folks than to
those who often dally with illness.
I thought today I would surely see you, but the heat is too great. May I send you my love and tell you how much I would love to be with you this afternoon?
Yours Willa Cather From