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I've been hoping to waken up one of these autumn mornings and find myself free to go to you for a few days. The time is not yet, but I'm full of hope for it. I won't be cossetted and fed in bed, however. If I go I shall expect to make myself useful in the "domestic world" if I can. Josephine3 and the apartment4 have been taking a good deal of time (though I work every morning) If one has a good maid, she's a responsibility, too, and when all the rugs and curtains have gone to the cleaners there are a great many things that must be got into shape. I'm a laborious sort of housekeeper, having begun it later than most women, after a wandering life. An apartment is a curse and a chain, but when you have some things you love in it, you have to keep it up.
How funny that the oil sketch your mother5 did of me should turn up! To this day it's the only one I've ever sat for. Well, I've turned up, too. Consider it symbolic.
Claude6 is going very well, with comforting re-orders
from the West. Total about 17,000 now, I believe. I think they advertise they've
sold 35,000. What awful liars publishers are—as everyone knows that, no one but the
farmer in Nebraska7 or country schoolteacher
is in the least deceived. I am writing this note in a very comfortable spot in
Central Park (very accessible to me by subway) trying to pretend I do not hear any
motor horns. I do not go home8 until
November, about the middle, as mother9
particularly wants me to spend this Thanksgiving and Christmas with her. I have not
been at home for the Holidays since I first
al almost a life-time
I wrote you my appendix11 is satisfactory for the present? Goodbye for today, and my particular love to your mother, please.Yours Willa.